


The Unposted Letter

by Ajayfray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crime, Drama, Friendship/Love, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Other, Post-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Sexual Assault, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ajayfray/pseuds/Ajayfray
Summary: It's been a few months since the consulting detective's miraculous return and things aren't quite up to par between him and John. When one young woman, burdened by her ex's persistent abuse, asks them for something rather unconventional, the game is on once again, only this time, our hero may be getting in over his head with this one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've been working on this story for nine months now and I'm finally ready to share this with you all. You should know, I am an American writing a fanfic for a British TV show, so while I have done tons of research, I'm sure I still got some things wrong and I'm happy to make changes where they can be made.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock.
> 
> Please enjoy!

_Barnsbury_ , _Pentonville Prison_

"Ski do dooo, I'm getting out today, baby..."

A young man's voice filled the stalls. He was the only one in the showers as he sang into a bar of soap, exclaiming his joy of freedom.

"I'm getting out today..."

His performance continued as he finished rinsing off. And as he dried off. And as he got dressed. He nodded his head along as he slipped on his brown oxfords and combed his hair into a left part. He was pleased. Someone familiar to him again, gave him a look of approval in the mirror and after one more adjustment to the collar, he strode out the door.

An older man, bald and slightly overweight, wearing an officer's uniform, stood just a few feet from the door and greeted him. "About time. In my experience, most inmates prefer to rush this process along and skip the wank off."

The young man laughed. "Well, I can assure you. I wasn't doing that. Just needed a few extra minutes to get ready. Kinda need to make an impression if you know what I mean."

"You got an interview," the prison officer stated as he escorted him down the hall.

The two approached a desk, where a single clerk was working. The young man leaned over the counter, getting her full attention.

"I am to be released today," he said, giving her a smile.

"Name, please."

"Henry C. Pinkerton."

The desk clerk typed his name into the computer. After reviewing the information, she paused briefly to look up at the inmate, who was still grinning at her, making her a little uneasy.

"One moment, please." She turned around towards a filing cabinet.

"You're seeing family, then," the officer guessed.

The man named Pinkerton turned around and snorted. "Come on. You know who I am. I don't have any of that."

"Well, distant, I was thinking. I don't know."

Pinkerton turned forward, crossing his arms against the counter. "Yeah, well, I'd like to keep them that way."

The desk clerk placed a form and a pen in front of them. "I need both of your signatures in the highlighted areas."

Pinkerton signed first then slid the form over to the officer. "Well...I'd say I'll miss you but..."

The officer chuckled as he signed. "Nah, kid. I'm happy for you. Sadly enough, this'll probably be the highlight of my day. So where you venturing off to?" He handed the completed form to the clerk.

Pinkerton shrugged. "Oh you know. Here...there." He walked towards the exit.

The officer scoffed. "Come on. Humor my curiously, will you? Who are you seeing?"

Pinkerton turned and took one step towards the officer. His eyes, a pale shade of blue, averted the officer's attention as he ran his fingers through his ash-blonde hair, but that demeanor soon ended as an air of confidence swept over. He looked up with an eager smile.

"I'm going to see my sweetheart."

\--

It was a sunny afternoon in the city of London. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, dressed in cool attire, walked down the crowded streets, on their way to a common destination. John, looking at the scenery before him, turned to his friend.

"Mm. Beautiful...Such a lovely day."

No response.

"I've been dying for this all day. Getting out of that clinic..." Still no response. "Getting some fresh air..."

Sherlock turned his head. "In London?"

"Ha! Got you to speak!"

Sherlock's eyes traveled up. "I still don't understand why we're doing this."

John shrugged. "Because we're friends. Friends do things with each other. They hang out. They chat..."

"And yet we can do all those things at my place. Why insist on going somewhere new? I hate new. New's boring."

"Sorry." John checked his watch. "Only have an hour. Just give it a chance. Everyone at the clinic is always raving about it. Said they have these pastries that-"

"Might want to skip the pastry. Your domestic bliss is showing." Sherlock made sure John knew he was looking him up and down, causing his friend to scrunch his face and shake his head.

"Okay, there it is." He pointed at him. "There it is. That bitterness. We need to talk about that."

The two stopped at the door of a coffee shop. John gestured for Sherlock to enter ahead of him.

"Why weren't you there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took one look around and turned to leave. "This place is awful. If we get a cab, now, we'll have approximately twelve minutes at my flat. Enough time for a round of Cluedo."

John didn't allow him to get far. "No, no, no." Grabbing the sides of his shoulders, he pulled the detective towards a nearby booth. "We are having coffee here."

"Oh, I get it. You're punishing me." Sherlock sat down despite his reluctance to do otherwise.

"My best man, Sherlock..."

"I don't like it here."

"My best man..."

Sherlock sniffed. "Place reeks of cheap coffee."

"Not at my engagement party."

"Where's the sugar?" Sherlock gestured to the center of the table. "There's no sugar on the table. What kind of coffee shop doesn't have sugar on the table?"

John leaned forward. "How could you not show up?"

"Sorry 'bout that." A female server approached their booth. "The last couple used up the entire bowl." She placed a bowl of sugar cubes on the table.

John questioned, " _Last_ couple?"

"What can I get for you boys?"

Sherlock looked up and began to deduce the girl. Brown hair dyed blonde, fine lines and dark circles around the eyes, locket hidden under her blouse, glue residue on her right wrist, engagement ring on her left hand, and brand new work attire. He smiled after completing his assessment. "You're new."

The server smiled back. "Um yes. I just started last week."

"Huh. I was wrong, John. This place isn't so bad after all. I'll have a cup of coffee. Thank you.

She blushed and nodded before turning to John. "And for you?"

It took a second for John to stop staring at Sherlock. "Uh..." He looked up to respond. "Sorry. I'll just have a coffee as well-And also, I heard good things about the pastries."

"Oh yes!" She reached across the table, took a menu from the display, "Here's our list," and placed it in front of John, straightening it before pointing to an item on the menu. "My personal favorite is this blueberry one here."

"Then I'll have one of those as well. Warmed up, if you will." John flashed her a smile.

"You got it. I'll get those out to you shortly." She left for the kitchen.

John waited for the server to be out of ear shot. "'You're new?'"

"New pen. New pad. New apron. That one was easy enough."

"You always do this. Chat up the staff..."

"Yes. Nothing wrong with a couple of refills."

John pursed his lips. "Yeah. You might want to save that charm for another server. This one doesn't quite look of age."

"Oh no. She is. I checked."

John got louder. "You checked?! How-" He bowed his head and lifted his hands up. "Never mind. We are not playing this game today."

"What game?"

John mocked, "'What game?' You know what game."

"There's no game. I am merely assuring you she's not underage."

John nodded. "Right, but a couple of years isn't much better though."

"Eh..." Sherlock tipped his head side to side. "Nine."

"Nine?! There's no way-No. I know what you're doing and it's not going to work."

Sherlock looked towards the same server coming back. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Here you go." She placed their cups in front of them and turned to John. "Now, it'll be about another minute on the pastry but it'll be fresh out of the oven for you."

"Great. That'll be just fine. Thank you."

The server nodded and turned to leave again.

"What part of America are you from?"

John shakes his head at him as the server turns around.

"Pardon?"

Sherlock repeated himself. "America. You're from the...northeast coast. Am I correct?"

The server stood there for a second, blinking. "Um yes. I lived in the New England area for a little while." She pushed back some strands of hair. "Sorry. How did you know?"

"You have just a hint of an accent."

She covered her mouth. "Oh."

"No no. It's nice. Charming actually."

She took her hand down. "Okay, well..." and started walking off again, blushing. "Thank you."

John turned to Sherlock. "You really want that refill, don't you?"

"Yes, I do." He dropped a couple of sugar cubes in the cup and took a sip of his coffee. "So? Did you see it?"

John sat his own down. "What? The engagement ring? That doesn't mean anything."

"That's not an engagement ring."

"What? That giant rock-"

"Well it's not hers anyway."

John sighed. "Alright. Get it over with."

Sherlock took another sip. "She's right handed."

"So?"

"She pointed to the menu with her left. Used her left hand to push back her hair. She wanted us to see that ring."

"Yeah, so we'd know she's not available."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. She just wants us to think that. That ring is vintage. Judging by the metal and cut of the diamond, I'd say it was purchased in the 1950s. Most likely for her grandmother."

"Or her fiancé's grandmother."

"Then her fiancé would've had the ring resized. Didn't you see the impression?" Sherlock points towards the kitchen. "It's too small on her. She's not engaged. She just uses that ring to ward off unwanted attention."

"Oh you mean from creeps like you?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee. "Or the owner."

John nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay. You had your fun. Now back to my question."

Sherlock sang, "You still haven't figured it out..."

John spoke firmly. "Don't care. Why didn't you come to our engagement party?"

Sherlock leaned back and scoffed. "I was on a case. You knew that!"

"Oh, right. That thing with the male brothel. Yeah, so glad to hear that was worth more of your time than our party."

"I did invite you."

John glared and Sherlock quickly got the message as he lowered his head, looking down at his half-filled coffee. John's face softened as he breathed out.

"Look. I get it. Christmas was a disaster..."

Sherlock muttered, "It's not about Christmas..."

"And I know you have a hard time at large gatherings but if you'd just tone down the showing off and try to engage a little more, you'd do fine with people. I've seen you do that before." He pointed towards the kitchen. "I see you're doing pretty well with our server."

Sherlock shrugged. "She has coffee."

"Here it is."

The server came back with the pastry and placed it in front of John. Behind them, a man, wearing a cap, entered the building. He walked over to the booth, nearest to the window, and sat down, turning his attention to the group.

"Anything else I can get you?"

Sherlock held up his finger. "Yes, actually. Does this place by any chance do refills?"

"Normally, no but..." She thought for a moment before smiling. "If you're taking your coffee to go I could top-"

Knocking.

A series of knocks sounded out in a playful rhythm from the front of the shop. The man sitting near the window spoke.

"So...you're blonde now, huh?"

The server's eyes were wide open. She looked back down at the two, struggling to keep her composure as she responded to Sherlock. "Um, sorry." She shook her head. "What were you saying?"

Sherlock directed his eyes to the hand holding the notepad. Her fist trembled. He looked back up and saw the man stand up and make his way towards them.

"I like it. It really enhances your look."

The server scribbled on her pad. "Right. Top off. Happy to. Excuse me, please." She hastened off, pulling out her phone from her apron pocket. Sherlock and John watched as the man followed her.

"See you got a nose stud too." He caught up, getting right behind her, "Got one on your belly as well?" and attempted to lift her shirt.

As John stood up, the server spun around and struck the man's face. He bent over, holding his cheek in pain, as another, older man came storming out of the kitchen.

"Whoa, whoa!" The older man stopped in front of the server. "What do you think you're doing?! You can't hit my customers!"

"No! You don't understand." She pointed to the younger man. "He's not allowed near me! I have a restraining order!"

John decided to intervene. "Excuse me! This isn't her fault! He grabbed her! We witnessed the whole thing!" He gestured to himself and Sherlock, who gave a simple nod.

The owner looked from John to the cowering man. Exasperated, he pointed to the door. "Alright, mate. You're done here."

The man, ignoring the owner's request, approached the young woman as she backed up. "Sweetheart, I forgive you. Just please come home!"

"Stay away from me!"

"Come on." The owner grabbed him by the arm and escorted him out of the shop. "You come back, then I'll be calling the coppers on you!" He closed the door behind him and looked around at the few customers who had been watching the whole thing. Embarrassed, he headed towards a back room, signaling for the server to follow him.

John sat back down. "Can you believe that? Makes you wonder where blokes like him come from."

"He's going to fire her."

"For that?! She didn't do anything wrong! No, I'm going back there." John stood up again.

"It won't help anything. She's better off, anyway."

"What? With out her job?!"

Sherlock sat down his coffee. "Recently divorced. Lost custody of his kids. Probably an alcoholic. Online pornography can only hold off that frustration and anger for so long, before it needs to be dealt with in a more proactive manner. Lo and behold, cute girl, around the same age as his entertainment, shows up needing a job. He makes advances toward her. She rejects them. And now she's physically assaulted one of his customers and he has the perfect excuse to dismiss her."

John sighed and sat back down once again.

"I told you this place was awful."

The back room door swung open and the server, clutching her handbag, hurried through the shop, towards the exit.

"And there goes our refills..."

"Poor girl."

The owner tried to follow after her but he stopped once he reached the door, seeing she was long gone. Sighing and turning back around, he put on a smile for his onlooking customers and approached Sherlock and John's table. "I do apologize about the disturbance. Is there anything else I can get for you, gentlemen?"

Sherlock and John answered, simultaneously.

"Bill, please."

"Refill."

\--

Sherlock and John walked down street again, back in the other direction. They carried with them each a cup of coffee and a bag containing John's pastry.

John sighed, looking at the ground. "Well that's too bad. Mary was really looking forward to going there." He whipped his head up. "Oh! I just remembered. She wants to have dinner tomorrow night. Probably discuss wedding details. You up for it?"

"Mmm...sure. We'll get together at my place."

"Perfect. Just be wary though. She's going to bring this big box of pictures, ribbons, color swatches, all sorts of wedding stuff. She seems to think you'd have a knack for this sort of thing." John chuckled as he nudged him.

Sherlock gave John a perplexed look. "Why are you doing that?"

"Wh-...Come on. You are kind of..."

"Kind off...go on."

John cleared his throat. "You have...attention to detail."

Sherlock was still confused. "Yes. Of course. That's kind of my thing."

"Yeah. Not the _thing_ I'm talking about." John shook his head. "You know what? Just forget it." He looked to his left, only to see his companion was no longer with him. Turning around, he spotted Sherlock approaching a woman at the bus stop.

The newly fired server was having trouble getting her lighter to work. After several attempts, she had just about given up when an outstretched hand appeared with a working lighter, igniting the fag hanging off her lip. She looked up to see Sherlock standing in front of her and took a quick drag before speaking.

"Thank you," she breathe out.

Sherlock reached for his wallet. "Here. You should take my card." He pulled out a business card.

The young woman waved her hand. "Listen. I'm flattered and I appreciate you two standing up for me back there but I'm not inter-" She interrupted herself once she saw the name written on the card presented to her. Looking at him again, she took the card and watched him leave.

"Let me know if he becomes too much trouble for you."

Sherlock joined up with John again.

"Since when do you have business cards?"

"I had a slow week."

John nodded. "Ah."

They continued walking, side by side, until the silence became too much to bear.

"You're forgiven."

Sherlock turned to John. "For..."

"The engagement party. I forgive you for not going to my engagement party. It was what we were talking about before," John rambled. He looked away and added, "Don't make me say it again."

"Oh."

"Just...I know we haven't really been the duo we once were so...I get it. It's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock didn't respond. He only nodded.

"...Okay. I give up. What is it?"

Then he smiled. "Glue residue on the back of her wrist. Most likely from a wristband she got at a nightclub. She probably woke up the next morning, realized she still had it on, and yanked it off, consequently leaving traces the adhesive."

John narrowed his eyes at him. "Okay, so that would put her at eighteen."

"Precisely."

"You said nine years. Where are the other six?"

Sherlock shrugged. "There were some faint lines around the eyes. That usually doesn't show up until your mid twenties but considering she's a smoker, I'd say you very well could have been right. It might have been just a few years."

John looked at his friend in disbelief. "What? You flirted with-" He saw Sherlock smirking. "You prick! You knew I'd get-No. I knew it! It was never about the refill! You were just stalling!"

"I wasn't stalling. I knew we were going to have our talk eventually."

John scoffed. "Then what was all that for?"

"Simple. For fun. It's fun. Too bad it was cut so short. You were enjoying it too." Sherlock smiled to himself as he left a dumbfounded John behind.

"You are a _terrible_ man."

\--

It was a stormy night outside of 221B. Sherlock, in his wine colored dressing gown, sat in his chair, reading the tabloids. He raised his eyebrow as he skimmed over a column.

"Huh...Well, that's one interpretation of the events. Take a look at this, John." Sherlock folded up the paper and tossed it. The paper landed on the empty seat cushion across from him and his face fell. He was alone. Fixated on John's chair, Sherlock sank into own, dejected.

Knocking.

Loud knocking could be heard coming from downstairs. He looked towards the staircase before calling out.

"Mrs. Hudson. Please chase off whomever is at the door. I'm certain greeting them in your dressing gown will prove efficient."

Another round of knocks sounded out, this time, even louder and more rapid. Sherlock sighed.

"Mrs. Hudson! Will you answer the door?!"

Yet, again, another round began.

Sherlock got up and briskly walked down the stairs, talking to himself.

"Can't have one evening off, can I? No, not Sherlock Holmes. 'Please! Help me find Tiger!' Mrs. Woodward. How many times do I have to tell you? Your cat is in heat and the both of us would prefer to be left alone." Sherlock swung the door open. "Yes?! How can I help you?!"

A small figure stood at his door. They wore a yellow rain jacket with their hood covering their head, and their legs and feet, bare. Sherlock could only deduce at that point that this person was a woman by observing the length of her hair and the feminine shape of her legs.

The woman cried, her voice hoarse and out of breath. "I-I'm sorry. I know it's late but...may I please come in?"

Sherlock reluctantly stood aside and motioned for her to come in. She stepped into the flat and pulled down her hood, revealing that she was injured. Her right nostril was bloodied where a piercing had been and the side of her neck had more blood trickling down along her curled locks. Upon further inspection, he could also see her legs were bruised. This nearly rendered him speechless.

"What on earth? You're-"

Mrs. Hudson appeared. "Who's that at the do-Oh my God, Sherlock! Who is this?" She approached the woman cautiously.

Sherlock continued to stare. "I've seen you..."

Mrs. Hudson placed her hands on the woman's shoulders. "Dearie, what happened?"

"The girl from the coffee shop..."

"You need to get to a hospital now."

The young woman shook her head as she cried.

"No. She needs to stay."

"Sherlock, look at her. She needs a doctor."

Sherlock snapped. "If she needed a doctor right away, then she would have gone." He turned to the woman. "Isn't that right?"

She managed to speak, "Y-yes. I um...I-I uh..." but she lost consciousness and collapsed. Sherlock caught her before she could hit the floor.

Mrs. Hudson gasped. "Oh my God! She-"

"-fainted. From exhaustion most likely." He picked up the woman. "She ran all the way here from wherever she was attacked."

Mrs. Hudson was horrified. "Attacked? Well then we'll have to call the police."

Sherlock carried the woman upstairs. "No. We'll do no such thing. It's clear she doesn't want the authorities involved for whatever reason. We will respect our new client's wishes."

Mrs. Hudson followed. "But Sherlock-"

"Mrs. Hudson. If you wish to help, stop offering your uninformed opinions and make some tea for our client." He laid her on the sofa and pulled out his phone. "I'm contacting John as we speak so there's no need to fret. She will get medical attention soon enough."

\--

John and his fiancé, Mary, were cuddled on their bed, face to face.

"I think..." Mary pondered as she looked lovingly at him. "...We should go to Australia...or Hawaii...Lets go to both."

John chuckled. "Um, that would be nice but...it's rather expensive don't you think?"

"So what?" She flipped on to her stomach. "It's our honeymoon."

John thought for a moment. "How about Florida? Hmm, lots of beaches...tropical scenery..."

Mary scrunched up her nose. "Florida's okay but I want to do something big."

John raised his brow. "Oh?"

"No. You know what I mean," Mary scolded.

"Is that what you want to do you?"

Mary laughed. "Stop! You are _not_ funny."

John laughed with her and leaned in for a kiss. He got about a second or two before the phone on the night stand vibrated. He groaned, letting his face fall into her neck.

"I can't have one evening off, can I?" John reached for his phone.

Mary rolled over on to her back. "Go on. He misses you. Go have an adventure with Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, I'd rather have one with you." John checked his screen. "Ah. It's nothing. Another one of his lady fans swooned at his door."

"My...Your friend sure is popular."

"Mm. Yes."

"Oh don't tell me you're jealous."

John shook his head, "No," and sighed. "I could only be jealous if he actually ever did anything about it."

His phone vibrated again. John read the screen.

"'Not another one of my fans. She's a client. Get here now.' He turned to Mary. "How does he do that?"

Mary laughed. "I don't know. Maybe he's in this room, hiding."

"Sherlock Holmes, hiding in our bedroom. Now there's a thought."

"Well, you did say he follows you just about everywhere."

John sat the phone back down. "Yes, well..." He leaned over her. "Lets hope he has enough sense to respect at least some personal boundaries."

Once again, the phone vibrated and John, disgruntled, reached for it.

"'End your sex night. Our client needs first aid. Stand by for a list of supplies.' No sense whatsoever."

Mary snickered into her pillow.

"Alright. I guess I'm heading out then." John swung his legs off the bed and headed for the wardrobe. "I'll probably be gone for a while. Don't wait up." He pulled out his coat.

Mary sat up. "Try not to stay out too late. We do have work in the morning."

"I'll do my best but I wouldn't hold out hope. After all, I'm off to have another adventure with Sherlock Holmes." With that, John closed their bedroom door behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! There's the first chapter there for you. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. Reviews are much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly warning that there might be upsetting material in this chapter. See the tags for reference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I want to say thank you for all the reviews, kudos, and whatnot. It's really encouraging and it just makes it that much more fun writing this story when I have this kind of support. :) Also I will be releasing a couple more chapters pretty soon so it will be caught up with the other website I posted this story on and then I'll be attempting to release one chapter a week from there on. Thank you again and I look forward to more of your feedback.

John entered 221B with his first aid kit and a full plastic bag. He placed his umbrella in the corner before heading up the stairs and rushing into the lounge. His feet stopped him once he witnessed Sherlock sitting in his chair, quietly reading something on his phone.

"Okay, I'm here. Where's the girl?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

John reached out and waved his hand. "Hello?! The girl, Sherlock. Where's my patient?"

Sherlock lifted his head up, "Oh. There you are, John. She's over there, on the sofa," and returned his attention back to his device.

John walked up to the sleeping woman on the sofa and examined her. "Uh, Sherlock. She doesn't look so good."

"Yes. I know."

"No, I mean, we should take her to a hospital."

Loud steps were heard in the stairway as Mrs. Hudson appeared with tea. "That's exactly what I told him, but does he ever listen to me-"

"Mrs. Hudson. What did I say about speaking out of turn?"

The tea was placed firmly on the table in front of the sofa. "I swear it. If you were my son..." She left, unwilling to take anymore of Sherlock's slights.

"What a miracle that would be for you."

John closed his eyes and slowly breathed out before continuing to inspect the woman. "Hang on." He took another look at her face. "She's the girl from the coffee shop. Our server."

"Yep."

John moved along the length of the sofa before pausing and straightening himself. "She...she isn't wearing any pants."

"Nope."

"Wh-why isn't she wearing any pants-Sherlock?" John held up the bag in his hand. "What's all this for?"

Sherlock lifted his head. "Oh. Good. I trust you got all of it." He stood up, took the bag from John, and slid open the dividing doors. The bag was tossed inside, consequently landing somewhere in the kitchen.

John repeated his question. "Sherlock. Would you please tell me what all that stuff is for."

"Oh...it's just for an idea I had. Probably won't be using it after all." Sherlock read from his phone.

"Why wouldn't we be using it?"

"Well...she might not go for it."

John narrowed his eyes. "Go for what, exactly?"

Sherlock walked over to his desk and picked up a stack of papers. "Here. Just in case, you should read up on this since you would be doing the bulk of the work."

John stared at Sherlock briefly before taking the papers from him. He paced around the room as he read. Abruptly, he stopped, dropped his jaw and slammed the papers down on his leg. He spun around, making a bee line for the detective.

"No! No no no no-"

Sherlock pushed John backwards into the kitchen, shushing him before sliding the doors closed. "John. She's sleeping," he lectured.

John held the papers up, speaking in a careful way. "Sherlock...this is sick and demented. How could-"

Sherlock retorted. "No. What was done to her is sick and demented. _This_..." He punched the papers with his index. "Is how you catch the perpetrator!"

"How do you even know that that's what happened?! Did she tell you?"

Sherlock opened the doors. "She doesn't have to." He peered out and pointed to the woman. "Look. The bite mark on the back of her neck. Not an animal. Human. The bruises on the back of her wrists, those were formed from being held down, one on top of the other and the larger ones on the back of her legs, I really don't think I need to explain that one to you. And lastly, we have the alarming, yet irrefutable evidence of a lack of pants." With that, Sherlock went back into the kitchen.

John sighed he as closed the doors and rubbed the whole of his face. "There are professionals for this, you know."

"Then why did she come here?"

John's brow lifted. "Because, clearly she..." His mouth stayed open as he waited for the words to explain this bizarre situation, but none came to mind. Only a hand came to grasp his left shoulder.

"Think about it, John. What did she say to the owner at the coffee shop?"

John scratched the side of his head. "Um...'He's not allowed near me' ...'I have a restraining order.'"

"Yes, John! Nail on the head. She got a restraining order for her ex-boyfriend. Now..." Sherlock's hands rested against his mouth. "She's attacked in her home by him and she's not going to the police or the hospital. Why is that?"

"...Because it's happened before."

"And?"

He took a second to think it over. "Neither of them have been able to help her."

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder. "Right again. I've been researching this topic extensively, John. Thousands of these cases go unsolved each year because the forensic evidence never gets tested. Thousands! Her's may be just one of the many that fell through the cracks in the system, but you and I...can step right over them."

John blinked, staring at Sherlock. "You do realize what you are really suggesting here, right?"

"Yes, and you are qualified. I checked. Any doctor can perform the exam and I can act under your supervision and command, to assist you. Once the evidence is collected, I can take it to Bart's and get a DNA profile."

"Uh, okay. Only one problem." John pointed towards the den. "She will never go for it."

Sherlock tipped his head. "Eh...She might-"

"No. She is traumatized. She will not want two strange men-"

"There's no harm in asking."

John was getting flustered. "Yes. Yes. Yes there is." He spoke sternly. "You are not-"

Sherlock turned. "I'm going to go ask her." He pushed the doors wide open and made his way towards the woman.

John placed the papers down and followed after him. "Damn it, Sherlock!"

The woman was now awake, sitting up and drinking the tea left for her. She looked up as Sherlock approached her.

"Ah. You're awake. Just in time. I have a proposition for-"

John came from behind and covered Sherlock's mouth. "No! Don't you dare!"

The woman watched the two as they struggled with each other and then slowly tipped her head down. "I-I'm ready to talk." Her hands caressed the warmth of her cup as she stroked the sides.

John removed his hand from Sherlock's mouth and moved to kneel down and open the medical kit he left by the sofa. "There's plenty of time for that, after you get checked up." He reached out his hand to her. "Hi. I'm Dr. John Watson."

Sherlock watched the exchange between John and the woman. She stared down at the hand in front of her for a moment before giving it a small shake. Her dark brown eyes met John's, conveying her trust.

"Elizabeth Grant," she answered meekly.

John nodded. "Nice to meet you, Elizabeth." He continued to speak in a gentle tone. "Now, is there any injury in particular you'd like me to have a look?"

The woman, now known to them as Elizabeth, nodded. "Actually..." She pointed behind her shoulder. "The back of my neck really hurts, if you wouldn't mind."

"Course." He got up with his kit and walked to the other side of her to sit down.

Sherlock picked up one of the chairs from his desk and placed it across from Elizabeth, leaving the coffee table between them. He sat down, waiting patiently and she took notice. Directing only her eyes to him, she tried not to move as John treated her injury.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes." She reached out her hand to him.

Sherlock nodded as he leaned forward. He took her hand and returned the gesture.

"Oh boy. He really got you there," John said as he wiped the blood off her neck. The patterned incisions stretched open as pressure was applied to the wound.

Elizabeth sat her tea down to gather her hair and hold it high, away from her wound. "He's never done that before...The bite, I mean."

Sherlock sat forward. "And 'he' is your ex?"

"Yes. That man who made a ruckus and got me sacked." Elizabeth averted her eyes. "That's the one."

"Why don't you tell us why you're here tonight."

Elizabeth breathed in before speaking. "I am here because I need your help. My ex boyfriend has been harassing me, non stop, for about a year now. Just moments ago, he broke into my home, hit me repeatedly, and he..." She paused and rotated her hand, trying to finish her sentence. "...forced himself...on me." She swallowed. "I managed to lock him in the bathroom and escape. Then I came straight here. I would have had him arrested and gone to the hospital but..."

Sherlock continued for her. "This has happened multiple times before and going to the proper authorities still hasn't kept you safe."

"I've gone and done the examination twice before. The first time, the evidence disappeared from the hospital and nobody could tell me anything. And then the second time, I went to different hospital but then the police lost it before it could be sent to a God forsaken lab so...I still took my case to court but without the evidence, he was only sentenced for six months...and then, as it turns out, he got out after only four." Her voice broke. "That's it. I've talked to the detective assigned to my case several times about all this, but he has been no help. He actually said to me, 'We'll get him next time 'round.'" She scoffed, shaking her head.

Sherlock spoke slow and gentle. "Take your time."

"Okay, this is going to sting a little." John began applying an antiseptic to the bite wound.

Elizabeth winced, clutching her knee. "I refuse to get the examination done again if it all is just going to disappear. It needs to get to a lab."

Sherlock sat back a bit. "We may be able to help you with that."

John lifted his head. "No, Sherlock. I told you-"

"Please continue."

"Okay, now...what I'm about to ask is absurd but...there's two things I need. One, I need to disappear. If he gets to me again, he will kill me. He would've if I hadn't escaped when did...And two..." She turned herself towards John, "Dr. Watson, you are a...doctor, obviously..." and then turned to Sherlock. "And Mr. Holmes, I read that you are a graduate chemist, am I right? You have access to some kind of a laboratory, don't you?"

Sherlock and John exchanged looks. Sherlock gave one as if to say, "Well?" and John responded with a shaking of his head. As the two silently converse, the woman reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a thick, sealed envelope.

"This is what I have with me right now but I have more." She offered the envelope to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened it and peaked inside. Upon seeing the contents, he glanced up at her, pausing, before placing the envelope on the table.

"My ex, Henry Pinkerton, is filthy rich. His father, that, um...slimy investor from the news a few years back, left him his entire fortune when he died. It's more than enough to pay off just about anybody and I am certain he's been sabotaging the evidence somehow. Now I, myself, cannot offer you nearly what he could but I think you'll find it's still a decent amount. May I borrow one of your phones?"

"Uh..." John reached into his pocket, "Here." and handed her his device.

As Sherlock waited for her to continue he suddenly came to a realization. "Did you say Pinkerton?"

"Uh, yes. Henry Pinkerton."

The corner of his mouth curved upward.

John noticed Sherlock's grin and got up to stand over him. He pointed to the kitchen.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Sherlock frowned as he looked up at John, seeing his disappointed expression. He got up and followed him to the kitchen. John looked back apoligetically.

"Sorry, Elizabeth. It'll just be a minute."

Sherlock slid the doors closed. Facing John, he placed his hands together against his lips, smiling.

"I did not expect that."

"Don't do that."

He whispered, "This is perfect."

John sighed. "No. It isn't. Please don't smile like that in front of her."

Sherlock stepped towards him, looking crazed. "Don't you see?! She's as sick and demented as me. She came up with that idea on her own! It's brilliant!" He grabbed John by the shoulders. "The game is on, John!"

"Don't say game."

Sherlock released John's shoulders and began pacing. "I finally have him where I want him!"

"Wait. What now? You 'have' him? Who is this bloke?"

Sherlock nodded. "Henry Pinkerton...It was about seven years ago, he was interviewed on the news about the death of his flatmate. The coroner ruled it a suicide but it was clearly murder. That was before the police ever listened to me. Although they did question him, he was never really a suspect...He had a rather convenient alibi..." Sherlock stopped short. "Anyway, taking on her case would allow me access to information that could help me solve the murder, which in turn should put Pinkerton at a disadvantage if he is, in fact, involved." His grin grew wider. "I'm sure being arrested for murder will weaken any ability he has to get away with sexual assault for a third time. Oh, John...We have to take this case."

"Fine, but there's got to be another way. Maybe we should call Lestrade first."

"We can't. Remember? The second time, the evidence was lost in police custody. Not only could we lose the evidence, it'll risk exposing her. No. We'll have to wait until the results are in. It's the only way."

John tried to keep his voice down. "But it's crazy! There's no guarantee this will even work."

"You're right, there isn't but it's the _only_ shot that girl has left."

John looked him in the eye, trying to remain willful but his demeanor collapsed, giving in to Sherlock's logic. "God dammit..."

"We can do this, John."

He groaned. "Really don't want to." John stared down at the floor with his hands resting on his sides. He stuck the tip of his tongue out as he contemplated Sherlock's ridiculous plan. "Okay." John held his hand up. "I hear what you're saying, but before we decide anything let's just go back in there and...make certain."

Sherlock agreed and the two of them headed out the door. John extended his arm, allowing Sherlock to lead the way.

"And quit smiling!" John whispered.

They walked back in. Elizabeth held out John's phone to Sherlock.

"Here. This is the rest of what I inherited from my grandmother."

Sherlock took the phone and looked at what was on the screen. After a moment, he handed the phone back to John.

"You can have all of it."

John saw the amount. "Holy-" He cleared his throat. "You don't have to offer that much money."

"Apparently I do. You two don't exactly seem to be on board with my idea."

Sherlock sat down. "My friend here is just slightly uncomfortable, given your age."

John whipped his head to Sherlock, mouthing a defensive, 'what?'

"You don't have to worry about my age. I know I look young but I'm actually turning twenty-five in a couple months, which makes me more than old enough to make my own decisions."

John rolled his eyes in response to Sherlock's gloating smile. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be condescending."

Elizabeth bowed her head. "No, I know. Sorry. It's just that everyone always gets it wrong. It gets on my nerves." She muttered, "I swear, it's going to be the death of me." She fidgeted with the ends of her fingers.

John took notice of her discomfort. "So...you are sure about this?"

Elizabeth nodded, still looking down. "Yes. Positive."

It was about one second of silence before anyone spoke.

"Excellent. Lets get started." Sherlock stood up.

"Hang on," John said sternly as he pushed Sherlock back down by his shoulder. "I just want to-"

"Alright. I'll level with you."

Sherlock and John turn their attention to her.

"I really don't want to do this, okay? I never wanted to do this again, but...I am _tired_ and I am _angry_. I just want my normal life back again so if this is my chance to get that then...I will take it."

The two men waited as she tried to continue.

"And it's not just me. There's one other girl I know of. She...she chose not to report it, but she deserves justice too and..." She paused to wipe her eye. "He will hurt others if he were ever to move on." She looked Sherlock in the eyes, "Please. Mr. Holmes..." and looked up at John. "Dr. Watson. Will you do this for me?

Sherlock turned to John. "Well, John. What do you think?"

John stood there, looking down at her. He twitched his nose as he contemplated. After about what seemed like several minutes, he nodded. "Yeah, okay. I'll do it."

Elizabeth's mouth opened. "Oh my God. Thank you. Really. Thank you."

Sherlock got up and headed for his desk. "We should get started right away. John, go ahead and set up the room."

John sighed, "Of course," and left for the kitchen.

Sherlock came back with a small tape recorder and sat down again. "And while he's doing that, let's get your statement on the events."

\--

It was a few hours later when Sherlock and John took all the evidence collected and organized it into two boxes. John sat in the kitchen, finishing up paper work.

"It makes me sick." John signed a page. "Where do men like that come from, anyway? What kind of man is that?"

Sherlock sat at his desk, downloading images on to a jump drive. "Oh, I don't know. Does a violent, hypersexual, psychopath with homicidal tendencies sound right to you?"

"No, not quite. I think evil is more like it. "

"There is no evil, John. Only defectiveness."

John turned to the last page. "Well, evil, defective. I don't really care. People like that need to disappear from this world." He clicked the pen and stacked the rest of the papers together.

"Agreed. With your spirit and my intellect, you and I are just the men for that job."

Sherlock and John exchanged brief smiles from across the rooms.

The computer beeped. Sherlock closed out a window on his screen and disconnected the jump drive from his laptop.

"Here." Sherlock tossed the drive to John.

John placed the drive in one of the boxes. "I guess that's everything." He weaved the flaps to close them. "Hey. How did you happen to have all those test supplies?"

"I originally ordered them for an experiment."

John stood up with one box. "Oh. What is it this time? Scalps, jaws, toes..."

"Finger tips. I plan to observe and record the strains of bacteria that collect under the nail bed at different stages of decomposition, although I suppose that'll have to wait till I get my next shipment in."

John pursed his lips. "Yes. What a shame. I'm going to go put this in the freezer now."

"Okay. Just shove the finger tips to the back. It should fit."

The bathroom door opened. Elizabeth, appearing to have just taken a shower, walked in to the kitchen, with fresh bandages on her neck and nostril and Sherlock's dressing gown wrapped snuggly around her. She shyly approached John.

"Um is there anything else to do?"

"Uh, no. That should be it. Sherlock? Is that everything?"

"Yes. We're done for now. The two of you should probably get to bed soon."

"That's right. What time is it? John checked his watch. "Wow it's nearly 2 o'clock. I need to get going." John took one step towards Elizabeth. "Okay. I just have a couple more things to discuss with you." John took a glance in the livingroom and lowered his voice. "Will you be needing any sort of...preventative measure for this? There's still plenty of time."

Elizabeth opened her mouth. "Oh, well..." she whispered, "I was in an accident some time ago that-"

"What are you two whispering about?" Sherlock questioned from his desk.

John called out, "Nothing, Sherlock."

"Doesn't sound like nothing."

"Butt out! This is between a doctor and his patient."

It took a moment for Sherlock to realize. "Oh. Of course. Contraceptives."

Red rushed through Elizabeth's face as she lowered her head.

John sighed heavily and lifted his finger up. "Excuse me one moment." The doctor headed straight for Sherlock and pulled him up from his collar, "Get up!" and walked the detective out of the room.

\--

Sherlock sat downstairs on the bench, waiting for John. He stood up once he heard footsteps descending the stairs. John appeared and stood in front of him, fuming.

"Umm...not good?"

John shook his head. "No. Not good at all, Sherlock. Not good at all. Complete opposite. How could you be so insensitive?"

Sherlock took a breath in and paused before speaking. "Do you want me to answer that?"

John held his hand out. "Listen. This will probably be one of the most difficult cases we have ever taken on because of its... _sensitive_ nature. Now if you are going to interact with this girl, then I need you to be on your best behavior and have some tact, because we're responsible for her wellbeing now. The poor girl's been through enough without you throwing it in her face, okay?!"

Sherlock said simply, "Okay."

He spoke firmly. "Did I make myself clear?"

"Yes. Perfectly."

He spoke even more firmly. "Are we clear, Sherlock?!"

Sherlock exclaimed, "Yes! Yes, I promise! I'll be tactful. Perfect gentleman."

John returned to his normal volume. "Alright...good." He nodded, "See you tomorrow for supper." and headed for the door.

"See you." Sherlock moved to close the door after him.

"Apologize!"

"Okay!" Sherlock shut the door and headed back up to the flat. He appeared back in the livingroom and sat down in his chair.

"Lisa. Come over here for a moment."

Elizabeth, who hadn't moved from her spot in the kitchen, looked around the room. "Who's Lisa?"

"Well you are of-That's not your name, is it?"

Elizabeth shook her head slowly. "It's Elizabeth."

"Well I was close, wasn't I? Lisa is short for Elizabeth."

"...No one calls me that."

Sherlock leaned his head back, getting irritated. "Fine. Duly noted. Would you please come over here, Elizabeth? We need to discuss your living arrangements."

Elizabeth walked across the room and stopped in front of him. He sat with either elbow resting on the arms of the chair, pressing his fingers together.

"How do you feel about disguising yourself as a homeless person?"

Elizabeth gave him an odd look. "Um...I'd rather not do that."

"Why not? I know a nice building, here, in London, where a group of them stay. You'll like them. They're actually a lot nicer than people give them credit for."

"No, I'm sure that they are but I'm really not...comfortable with that idea."

Sherlock nodded. "Okay. Then where do you propose I put you?"

"I-I don't know. I haven't really had much time to think it through."

Sherlock muttered, "No, of course you haven't."

Elizabeth bit her lip. "How 'bout here?

"Here? As in 'here' here?"

Her voice shrunk. "Well...yes."

"Hell no."

"W-why not? You have an extra bedroom, don't you?"

"Yes, and you may stay a couple nights while I get you situated but I can't have some silly girl wondering around my flat, distracting me from my work for any longer than that."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "I'm sorry. 'Distracting?'"

Sherlock wagged his finger at her. "And while I'm at it, I have rules for you while you are here and if you break anyone of them, I reserve the right to throw you out. Are we clear?"

She nodded. "Perfectly."

"One. You will not bother me while I'm working. Two. Do not touch any of my possessions. Three. Most definitely, do not go in the freezer. That one's for your own good. And four. Don't be noisy. Do you think you will be able to comply with my conditions?"

"I think so."

"Excellent." He flashes her a smile. "Then we should get along great. Alright. What's next?" Sherlock looked up at Elizabeth and noticed a problem. "You are going to need clothes."

Elizabeth bent her head down and folded her arms over her chest, speaking awkwardly. "Probably."

"Right. Let's think." He turned to face forward. "Too risky to get some from your place...We'll just have to get you some new ones."

"Okay then, so...you'll need my sizes-"

"Nope. I've got that all figured out. Moving on-"

"Hold up. Figured-"

"Ah-" Sherlock lifted his index. "I'm going to stop you right there because I don't think you'd care for it if I elaborated on that any further."

Elizabeth held herself tighter. "Fine."

"Good girl. Moving on. Where to sleep...No bedding in John's room..." Sherlock leaned forward. "Mrs. Hudson probably has some." He left his chair and stood at the staircase, calling out, "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh, no!" She came up behind him. "That's quite alright. You don't have to bother her."

Sherlock turned around. "No, no. It's fine. I really don't mind." He called out again. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"No. Really. I could just sleep on the sofa."

"Absolutely not. I'll be using this space to work all night and I imagine you'll probably want some privacy." He thought for a moment before shrugging. "Just take my room, then." He went back into the lounge.

"Oh no. I couldn't."

Sherlock sat at his desk. "Relax. It's just for the night and I won't be needing it anyway."

"As long as you're sure."

"Positive. My bedroom is past the kitchen, at end of the hall. Now, I imagine with everything you've been through, you must be exhausted. I suggest you should probably retire for the night. I'll talk to you more about your case tomorrow." He turned his attention to his computer.

Elizabeth took one step towards him. "Um...Just one more thing..."

Sherlock's eye stayed glued to the screen. "Yes? What is it?"

"How much money do you want for all this? I can transfer the payment tonight, if you want."

"That won't be necessary. I prefer to be compensated for my services after they are completed plus the money you already gave me will be sufficient enough for your living expenses. We'll discuss further payment on a later date closer to your ex's arrest."

Elizabeth took steps towards the bedroom. "Okay, then...well, I guess I'll just..." She turned her back, never finishing her sentence.

"Wait one moment."

She turned back around.

Sherlock tilted his head down, still making eye contact with her. "What I said earlier...pertaining to your situation, was, in the least, insensitive and cruel, and as one of the people you've chosen to confide your grievances in, I hope you can accept my most sincere apology."

Elizabeth stared. "You're very different." She added, "-from when I first met you, I mean."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

Elizabeth answered quickly. "No." She shrugged. "I'm not disappointed."

Sherlock said nothing.

"I accept your apology." Elizabeth headed for the bedroom. "Have a good night, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock stayed as he was, watching her disappear behind the door at the end of the hall.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was the following day. Molly Hooper had spent her time in the morgue, finishing up her assessment of the dead, middle-aged woman that laid on the slab before her. Checking off, one by one, the little boxes on her clip board, she turned, stepping into a tall, dark someone, who waited patiently for her acknowledgement.

"Hi Molly."

"Oh my God!" The clipboard flew over her shoulder.

"I have a favor to ask of you. Walk with me." Sherlock guided the pathologist towards the door by her shoulders.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"This won't take but a moment."

"But the body-"

"Relax. It's not going anywhere."

\--

Sherlock and Molly stood in the lab for quite some time, discussing the previous night's events.

"I'll do it, but I'll need to ask someone for help."

"Is this someone trust worthy?"

Molly nodded. "Very. It's her life's work. I'll be seeing her today, actually. Tom and I will be meeting her and her husband for lunch. We're doing a double date." She bounced on her toes as she giggled.

"Excellent. Just text me when you have her answer and thank you, by the way.

"Course. I'm always happy to help." Molly picked up one of the cardboard boxes on the table and went to the back of the room. "I'm actually kind of surprised you'd take on a case like this."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, it's not your usual kind of case, is it?" She opened up a DNA freezer, located in the right hand corner of the lab. "You know, maybe out of your comfort zone."

"It's a psychopathic man on the loose, hurting people. Not anything I haven't dealt with before."

"No, of course. I just mean that..." Molly closed the freezer door and turned to face him. "Normally these psychopaths you deal with are kidnappers, killers, terrorists, you know not..sex offenders."

"I don't follow."

"It's just a bit more sensitive than most of your cases."

Sherlock breathed in. "Perhaps, but I make no discriminations if not for the validity and seriousness of my cases. I will catch this perpetrator and put him behind bars just as I have done so with the rest."

"I know you will, but...I still find it quite noble of you. Helping this girl." She gave him a warm smile.

Sherlock stared straight ahead at her, having no response. Her face soon fell as she tucked her head down and scampered to the door.

"Anyway, sorry for being weird."

He watched as she hurried to leave and moved to stop her. "Uh-...There's one more thing."

She halted. "Yes?"

Sherlock walked casually around the table towards her, keeping his hands in his pockets, "Molly..." and stopped in front of her. "You're a woman..."

"Last I checked." Her eyes creased after that statement. "Wait, no..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"It's just a saying-"

"Please don't explain yourself, Molly."

Molly nodded. "Right, sorry."

"I need help...shopping for a woman. Will you be able to assist?"

Her mouth hung open for a moment. "Uh, um...sure. What-"

"Great. Five foot three. Bust 32B, waist 23, hips 33 and shoe size 5. I'll wait here while you finish up with your cadaver." Sherlock sat down in the nearest stool, placing one knee over the other.

Molly's jaw hung down a little longer this time. "Oh! Okay, um, so it's that kind of shopping then, um..." She forced a smile, giving him an encouraging gesture. "Good for you!"

Sherlock looked oddly at her.

"So, um...I can't actually go with you, though. Remember? Lunch with my friend?"

Sherlock fixated on her. "Are you wearing a new-"

"Mm-mm." She shook her head, "That doesn't work on me anymore," and held the front of her hand up, twitching her ring finger. The diamonds resting on her knuckle flickered an important reminder to him.

"Sorry. Old habits."

"I can offer advice though. What does she like?"

"I have no idea. What do twenty-four year-olds like nowadays?"

"Twenty-four?! She's twenty-four?!" This exclamation, like most of Molly's outburst, was involuntary.

Sherlock blinked. "Yes. That is how old she said she was."

She waved her hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like I was judging you, it's just that that's younger than I expected. For you to be dating-"

"Dating?"

Her head tilted. "Wait. What?"

Sherlock repeated himself. "Dating? You think I'm  _dating_ this girl? My client?"

It was Molly's turn to blink. "...Wait. No. I didn't know you were talking about-Why do you know her, um...sizes?"

He started slowly. "Because she's in hiding and she can't go back to her house to get clothes-I told you all this, didn't I?"

Molly shook her head and spoke a soft, "No."

"Oh."

'Awkward silence' did not even begin to cover the amount of discomfort in that room. While Sherlock took to looking around the lab, Molly found the tiles beneath her to be most fitting for her gaze.

"I'm going to go finish up." She moved to the door.

"Good idea. It's been sitting there for a while now."

Molly turned back around. "Oh wait..." She picked up the second box and turned back again, for the door.

"I just thought of something." Sherlock stood up. "Could you and..." He thought for a moment. "...Tom possibly take in my client?"

"Oh, um, maybe. I'd have to ask him but I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"Excellent. You can let me know after your lunch date."

"Great!" Molly nodded enthusiastically. "I'm sure it'll be no problem. In fact, I think he'd be delighted."

"...Delighted?"

"Yes. He's always wanted to help you on one of your cases. Says he's little a jealous of me." Molly giggled.

Sherlock did not meet her sentiments. "...Never mind."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock passed her, heading straight for the door, stopping only after pulling it open. "Far too enthusiastic. Probably will tell people. Tom seems the sort to know lots of people; people who would flap their lips about such topics as private detectives harboring young women who are meant to remain inconspicuous at all costs." He stepped out, propping open the door. "I imagine that could be very troubling for you as well, finding a dead girl in your flat. You'd probably lose quite a bit of sleep over such an ordeal." He turned on his heal and allowed the door to close after him.

"Wait just a minute!" Molly quickly moved to grab the door handle. "He wouldn't-"

Sherlock peaked his head back in. "Thank you, Molly, for all of your help. I really do appreciate it and don't you worry about the girl. I'll find a place for her fairly shortly." With an assuring nod, he popped back out of the lab.

Molly, having no words even if he had stayed to hear them, stood there, bewildered. As she realized she was also intending to leave, Sherlock peaked his head in once more.

"Oh and of course, don't tell Tom." Giving her one of his trademark winks, he left once again.

"...Okay."

\--

John sat in his office at the clinic, reading through some medical records on his computer. He yawned. The long list of drugs inspired him to take another sip of his coffee before continuing to scroll through the pages. After a couple of knocks, John pulled his eyes from the screen, to see Mary standing just outside the entrance.

"Hey. Mrs. Seymour just called. She's canceling again.

"Of course she is."

Mary stepped in. "Yeah. What is this, like, fifth time now?"

"Sixth actually." John leaned back and sighed. "It's just as well. That'll give me more time on this."

"What are you doing?"

John shrugged. "Just...trying to see if can prescribe any kind of pain reliever for that girl I told you about."

"Oh, right." Mary thought for a moment. "Is she...allergic to a lot of-"

"Mm." John shook his head.

" _Not_ allergic," Mary reiterated.

"Nope." He looked back at his computer. "It's funny how things seem like such a good idea when you've got a thrill-seeking, psychopath goading you on." He pinched his forehead, looking restlessly at the screen.

Mary walked over to him and rubbed his shoulders. "You're just tired. I'm sure it'll work."

"It better work."

"It will."

"I want him locked up."

"Of course you do." She leaned over him. "You're a good man, John Watson."

John looked up and smiled at her. She gave him one more squeeze before walking off.

"I'll leave you alone." Mary opened the office door to leave but she stopped and turned around first. "I just remembered. We still have our dinner tonight with Sherlock. Is that girl going to be there?"

"Gosh...I didn't even think of that." He paused. "Do you maybe just want to cancel? Pick another day?"

"Oh, well..." Mary shrugged. "I don't know. It might be fine."

"Really? Are you sure, cause we can always do dinner another night."

"Yeah, I know. It's fine. It'll be fine."

"You're sure?"

Mary nodded. "The date's approaching fast. We need him while we've still got his attention."

John smirked. "Okay."

The engaged couple shared a short moment of mutual anticipation of their big day. Locking their eyes to one another, they almost didn't notice the faint, humming noise coming from beside the keyboard.

John sighed, "I wonder who that could be." After taking a look at the message displayed on his phone, his mouth curled into a grin as he bowed his head down, trying not to laugh. "Okay. I'm feeling much better now."

"What is it?"

John stifled his laughs through his speech. "Sherlock...he's shopping...for the girl. He's miserable..."

Mary started to smiled now. "What?"

"He hates it...Oh God. Christmas, one year...you should've seen it..."

John's phone then began to vibrate in intervals. Still laughing, he pressed his thumb to the 'answer' button and then to the speakerphone icon before setting it back down on the desk.

"Stop laughing at me!"

"Having fun?" John responded.

"Get over here now and help me!"

John looked giddily at Mary before clearing his throat. "I can't. I have a job, remember?"

"Well, that's not my fault, is it?! How do you people even do this without being driven mad? Is the music suppose to soothe you while you're being assaulted by salespeople?"

John almost lost it. "Yeah, actually I think that is one its functions."

"Someone should just put them all out of their misery."

John groaned.

"All just drop to the floor simultaneously...How would one do that?"

"Do you want to be arrested again?" He asked sternly.

There was a pause.

"Yes. That is much preferable."

"Suck it up and get it done." John was just about to hang up the call when Mary held out her hand.

"Hang on. I'll help him," she chimed in.

He covered the phone, speaking quietly. "You sure?"

"A woman should really be doing this anyway, don't you think?"

John uncovered the phone. "Okay. Help is coming. My wonderful fiancé has taken pity on your pathetic, whiny self."

"Mary. If you are listening to this, you are the most wonderful human being on this earth and I promise you can come along on our next murder investigation."

John hung up. Sighing and shaking his head at his friend's typical behavior, he looked back up Mary, who had been snickering.

"Come here."

She walked up to the front of his chair where he sat up, holding out his arms. He held her waist loosely.

"Thank you for being amazing."

"Aww...You're so lucky, aren't you?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, I think I'd have to be. I mean, how in the world could I have ever found a woman who can handle Sherlock Holmes?"

Mary kissed him and gave him a sly smile, before placing her hand on his cheek. "My dear John. Practically all women on this earth are equipped to handle a man like Sherlock Holmes."

John dropped his head down in a fit as she walked off. He looked back up, licking his lips and swinging his chair as he watched his clever fiancé walk out of his office.

\--

The mall was filled with eager shoppers. Sherlock had settled himself in a department store and browsed the selections of women's silk blouses. Skimming through the pieces anxiously, he muttered to himself about his utter disinterest in the task.

"Boring, boring, boring, boring..."

A humming sounded off. He pulled his phone out and glanced at the text message on the screen.

_She said she'd do it. She estimates it would take about three to five weeks to complete._

_Molly_

After expressing some disappointment, he placed his device back in his trouser pocket and continued pushing the hangers across the metal rack. He stopped once a voice from behind called out to him.

"Sherlock Holmes. Am I getting a glimpse of your secret life?"

Sherlock knew the owner of the voice right away and he was not in the mood to speak to her. Reluctantly, he turned to her, tacking on a smile. "Ah. Sally. What a pleasure."

Sally Donovan approached him, smirking. "Hmm. Same. You know, I never did congratulate you on your miraculous recovery."

"No, you didn't." He narrowed his eyes at her. "And I don't suppose you ever will either."

Donovan scoffed. Crossing her arms and pressing the tip of her boot against the floor, she kept her game face on. "I see you are as sharp as ever. Must have been really boring for you. Being six feet under."

"On the contrary. I spent a good deal of the time taking down an international network of career criminals. I believe, the same one I had presumably forged for the purpose of entertaining myself through a convoluted attempt at deceiving England into believing there was a criminal mastermind after me."

"...Still sore about that?"

"Why would I be?"

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?" She asked impatiently.

Sherlock looked around the store, giving her an expression translating to 'it's obvious.' "Shopping," he finally said.

"Here?" She pointed to the ground.

"Yes. Here."

"This is the women's section."

"Clearly." He directed his eyes to a wall covered in colorful, laced bras before returning to her.

Instead of retorting back, Donovan took to just standing there, glaring at him. Waiting for him to fold.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm shopping for my girlfriend."

She looked at him in disbelief. "Your girlfriend? You have a girlfriend?"

"Yes. I have a girlfriend."

"Interesting, because that headline yesterday seems to suggest otherwise."

"Oh! That is interesting! A headline suggesting something other than the truth? How observant of you."

"Oh don't worry. I'm sure it's all rubbish, although...that picture in the article, very-"

"Sherlock! There you are! I've been looking all over for you." Mary came from the section across, approaching the two.

Donovan, surprised, asked, "Is this her?"

"Not quite. This is Mary Mortsan. Dr. Watson's fiancé. Mary, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan. An old friend." He strained the last part.

Mary held out her hand to her. "Oh hi. Nice to meet you."

Donovan shook her hand. "Yes, pleasure."

"Well, Sherlock. Are you ready?"

"Yes. Let's-"

"I'm sorry," Donovan interrupted. She turned to Mary. "So are you here helping him shop for his girlfriend?"

Mary caught on. "Oh. Yes. I'm afraid as brilliant he is, he doesn't have much of a clue about shopping for a nice birthday gift."

"It's true. I have absolutely no idea what I am doing."

"Sherlock," Mary scolded. "Did you forget she doesn't really like this kind of expensive, fancy clothing? We really should be looking for something more _comfortable_ and _casual_."

"Yes. I think I get the picture. Thank you."

Donovan nodded slowly. "Aww. How sweet. What did you say her name was again?"

"I don't believe I told you."

"Oh, right. You didn't. Well, come out with it, old friend. What's her name?"

"Emily," he answered quickly.

"Lovely name."

"Yes. Quite."

They stood there for a second, keeping eye contact. Mary watched on, trying to discern the true relationship between them.

"Well, I'd best be off." Sherlock started guiding Mary to the walkway. "Take care, Sally."

Together, they walked off, leaving Donovan staring daggers at the back of his head.

"Old ex of yours?" Mary commented.

"Hardly. I suppose you could say 'ex colleague' but it even that would be a stretch."

"Yeah, I imagine it would be difficult working with you."

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, as Mary placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I'm kidding."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

Mary stopped in her tracks. "What do you think I'm doing here? This is my half day and I canceled my nail appointment for you." She folded her arms.

Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke in a more polite tone. "Please help me."

"That's better." She grasped his arm. "Now come on. I know the perfect place. We'll need to get some supplies as well."

"Just how long is this going to take?"

"As long as it needs to. Now suck it up." She smiled at him playfully as he groaned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Chapter 4 will be up soon!


	4. Chapter 4

Elizabeth Grant sat alone, curled up at the end of sofa, in the flat of 221B. Turning the page of a blue, hard cover book she had resting on her lap, she lifted her head to the faint sound of a door opening, followed by a few voices downstairs. She closed the book and placed it on the table as she leaned forward. Someone was coming up the stairs.

"Here's your stuff," Sherlock announced as he dropped some colorful, plastic bags to the floor before disappearing around the corner.

She got up from her seat and searched through the items inside. "Finally. Clothes," she muttered as she gathered the shopping bags. "Thank you!"

More steps were heard. Mary appeared in the living room with a couple of more bags. "Oh." Upon seeing the young woman, she placed them down against the wall and held out a hand to her. "Hi! I'm Mary. You must be Elizabeth."

Elizabeth shyly shook her hand, clutching the dressing gown closed at her chest. "Um, yes. Hi." She paused. "So um...are you his..." she pointed in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

Mary turned briefly and realized. "Oh, no. God, no. I'm John's fiancé."

"Oh." Elizabeth smiled a little in relief. "Okay, good. Listen, I...I really hope I didn't cause you too much trouble last night. I know it was late and-"

Mary waved her hand. "Oh please. No. Trust me. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to marry John." She looked over her shoulder. "Sometimes I feel like I'm marrying the both of them."

Sherlock reappeared in the livingroom, wearing everything but his jacket. "Likewise, Mary."  
He turned to Elizabeth. "So? How do you like your new clothes?"

Elizabeth nodded. "I like them a lot. Thank you, again."

"Don't thank me. It was quite necessary," Sherlock said as he gave her a polite smile. "Now, on the subject of your case, I spoke with my colleague about your..." He chose his words carefully. "...unique situation. She and a work associate of her's have agreed to help out and they've estimated the completion of the testing to be between three to five weeks."

Elizabeth frowned a little. "Oh. That long?"

"Regrettably yes, but on the upside, I've thought of a fairly suitable residence for you, during my ride here, that I believe you'll find to your liking." He nodded to her before making his way towards his desk. "Just need to make the arrang-"

He stopped in his tracks. Only halfway to his destination, he took one look to his left and then one look to his right. Turning on his heel, he pointed behind him, in the direction of the coffee table, and made one step towards his client.

"Correct me if I'm wrong but I could have sworn I made a specific request for you to _not_ touch my belongings."

Elizabeth dipped her head down and rushed to the book she had left on the table. "I'm sorry. I'll put it back right away."

Mary moved to stop her, reaching a hand to her shoulder. "Uh, no. You don't have to do that." She shook her head at him. "Sherlock. You can let her read one book, can't you?"

Sherlock approached them and took the book from Elizabeth's hand, reading the title. "Moby Dick? ...Huh. I didn't know I had this one. Alright. You can read it."

He offered the novel back to her but as soon as she tried to take it, he lifted it out of her reach.

" _Provided_ , of course, you explain to me what you were doing on my computer."

Elizabeth held her mouth open for one second too long. "I-I wasn't on your computer."

"Don't waste time lying to me. Just tell me what you were doing."

"Nothing. I didn't. I was reading the book all day, I swear."

Sherlock looked down at her, running his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. "I purposely place my computer at a slightly askew position before I left this afternoon and I see now that it's perfectly aligned with the desk." He paused for dramatic affect, pointing to the laptop in question. "You have a habit of straightening things. One example is how, yesterday, you carefully placed Dr. Watson's menu in front of him and corrected it to line up to the table's edge. Another one is those books on the shelf are upright despite there being an empty space where the rest should have toppled over." He finished, firmly. "Quit lying."

She bowed her head down again. "Okay, I sent one message."

"There's a good girl." His lips tightened into a smile of sort.

"Sherlock," Mary warned.

Elizabeth met his eyes. "Just one friend, though. I told her I went back to the States for a family emergency. That's all. I didn't go through your personal files or anything."

"Of course you didn't." He made his way to the desk again. "All those things are on another user, password protected." He sat down and opened up his laptop. "Now go get changed. I'd like my dressing gown returned to me."

Mary placed a gentle hand on the defeated woman's arm. "Hey. Let's get these put away, then. Shall we?" Picking up the ones left beside the wall, she motioned for her to go ahead before clearing her throat loudly and sending a look of disapproval his way.

Sherlock returned with a silent 'what' as Mary followed the young woman upstairs. Going back to his work, seemingly over the incident, he pulled up his web browser history and saw a social media site listed at the top.

"Facebook?" He scrunched his face before clinking on the link. An alert sounded off; thirty-seven unread messages, as indicated by the icon at the corner. He clicked on the little dialog bubble at the top, revealing that all the messages were from a Henry Pinkerton. He smiled mischievously.

"Oh, you are relentless."

He read the messages, one by one, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. Even when Elizabeth, now dressed in jeans, a button down, long-sleeve, and white canvas shoes, with her thick hair pulled up high, stood hovering over him with his red dressing gown, Sherlock still would not budge.

"Yes? What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. I'm just returning your dressing gown to you, like you said." She extended the folded gown to him.

Sherlock turned, "Oh," and took the red, silk article from her. "Thank you." He proceeded to unfold the garment and to pull his arms through its sleeves.

Elizabeth stared, wide eyed. She was witnessing him dress himself in the very dressing gown she had worn herself only moments ago. It wasn't until she had noticed something on the computer screen that she had broke her focus from his peculiar behavior.

"Um...Is that my Facebook account?"

"Yep," Sherlock answered simply as he continued reading.

"W-Why are you reading my personal messages?"

"Just skimming actually. Could be some useful information in here."

She sighed loudly. "Please log off."

"Mm, no."

"Log off right now! I'm serious."

"You're serious? Well, in that case, I'll advise for the next time you decide use my computer without my permission, that you may want to not be an idiot and leave your account open."

Elizabeth shrunk back at his words. Clutching her arm, she looked regretfully at him.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock noticed her demeanor and took a deep breath before facing her.

"Listen to me," Sherlock started softly. "I trust you know I have rather unconventional methods to solving my cases, otherwise you wouldn't have come to me in the first place. I am going to need you to continue to place your trust in me if we are ever to insure your ex's incarceration in a timely matter."

She nodded her head. "I do. I trust you."

"Then will you allow me use of your account?"

She thought for a moment before answering. "Fine. You may use it."

"Okay then," he replied. His soft expression then returned to normal. "Now go somewhere, please."

He continued to glare at her until she complied. Backing away a couple of steps, she turned and rushed up the stairs. Once he was alone, Sherlock turned his attention back to the screen and continued to read the last of the messages.

 _Hey sweetheart! It was so good seeing you again!_ _  
I've really missed you._  
_When we meet up again, I think I'm going to take you to the gardens. You remember them, don't you?_

\--

It was a few hours later. John had finally gotten off work and arrived at Sherlock's as dinner was cooking. Accompanying Mary and the young woman in the kitchen, he laughed at some off-hand comment Mary had made and left the two women to join his friend, who was still sitting at his desk.

"Care to be social?"

Sherlock waved his hand. "Later. During dinner. Take a look at this, John." He pointed to the screen.

"Are you on Facebook?"

"'This is my last night here, before I move to London,'" Sherlock read. "'I just want to say, I will miss each and every one of you, my friends and family here in Manchester. Though there are mixed emotions right now, there are no second thoughts. I am looking forward to the new experiences, new acquaintances and, of course, reuniting with a certain someone, who has been a light in my darkest of times. Thank you all, for your love and support and thank you, God, for giving me this opportunity.'"

Sherlock turned to John, pointing to the passage. "Seven years ago, Timothy Addison, wrote this three weeks before falling from five stories, off his hall building, into a pile of construction waste, with a suicide note in his left pocket. Now, I am no expert, but someone as high-spirited and optimistic as this young person doesn't exactly strike me as the type to kill themselves."

"Well, no," John said. "There isn't a type. Really anyone could do it."

"Nope. There's a type. There's always a type."

"Mm, no. I really don't think so. You just have to be pushed."

"Or just pushed off a building," Sherlock returned.

John scoffed. "Okay, so they're both just as likely, then."

"Who knows. It could be neither, of course, I don't need to tell you that. You've seen that played out before."

Looking up at John, Sherlock grinned proudly, waiting for the desired response. His friend glared back at him, clearly not amused.

"Too soon?"

"I can kill you with my bare hands."

Sherlock acted hurt. "Then all my effort would go to waste, John."

"Shut up," John warned. "Just tell me about the dead kid."

Sherlock began typing. "I managed to download these pictures from Scotland Yard's mainframe back when the investigation was still on going." He turned his laptop. "Here."

John bent down to see. "Ooh..." He winced at the sight of a mangled body, impaled by a crooked, metal pipe in his chest. "No coming back from that."

Sherlock showed him the next picture, this time of the same body, naked and on a slab. He pressed his finger to two places on the screen. "Right here and here. Look at the bruising."

John squinted. "Huh...That is sorta weird. The color's a bit different."

"Yes, and they're more round and concentrated. All the rest of them are evenly distributed. Exactly what you'd expect from landing in a pile of wood."

"So, it looks like he could have been roughed up before." John thought for a moment. "But I don't think he could have died from just those injuries though. He had to have been pushed to have been murdered."

Placing both elbows at the edge of the table, Sherlock clasped his hands together, seemingly troubled. "My thoughts exactly."

John leaned over to see his face. "But..."

"There were no signs of a struggle; no hair, finger nails clean, even the roof was canvassed. Everything piece of evidence pointed to suicide."

"Then what convinced you otherwise?"

"Pinkerton's interview..." Sherlock answered, giving a serious look to John. "It sent a chill up my spine." He began typing. Finishing off with a tap of the enter key, a video of a female news reporter started playing on the screen. "Listen."

_-following this tragedy, the students and teachers, here, have put together this massive memorial at the site of Timothy's untimely passing. I have here, today, one of Timothy's flatmates, Henry Pinkerton-_

"My God. That's him."

_Henry? You were telling us before you considered him a friend of yours. Do you have anything you'd like to say?_

_Yes, um, I was at my father's gala last night when I heard the news about Tim. It's just really unbelievable because-_

Sherlock paused the video. "Did you hear him?"

"Yes I heard...Wait, what exactly did I hear?"

"'I was at my father's gala...'"

John shrugged. "Uh...I still don't..."

Sherlock directed his hand to the screen. "The very first thing he does is establish his alibi on the news. He could have said anything along the lines of, 'I can't believe it," or 'I just saw him the other day. How could this be?!' Why mention the gala? What reason would any innocent person have to mention the place they were upon hearing of the tragedy?"

John nodded. "Right. I see...but his alibi checked out, didn't it?"

"Of course it did. His alibi was his own father's charity event. Bit convenient if you ask me."

John sighed. "Well, I hope you're right about this."

"I am right about this."

"No, yes..." He turned around briefly before talking in a slight whisper. "I just mean for her sake. He should go to prison for rest of his life based on his crimes against her alone."

"Then perhaps you would care to join me on a trip to Manchester. I plan on taking a rental to Timothy's parents sometime this week and, as always, I could really use your assistance."

John stood, thinking. "And exactly how long will you need my assistance?"

"Don't worry. I'll cover the rooms."

"Yeah, no. That's fine, but I still need to check with Mary." John pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "I can't just leave her at home and go off galavanting with you any time I please."

Sherlock gave him a odd look. "Galavanting?"

"That's what Mary calls it."

"Ah." Sherlock then leaned back, calling out, "Mary. John and I want to go off 'galavanting' on a very important case this week. Would that be agreeable to you?"

Mary called back. "Course! Why are you even asking me?"

Giving a look of satisfaction, he turned back to John. "Ah. There we go. Taken care of. I'll go ahead and inform them I'll be bringing a friend." He took his phone from beside the keyboard.

"...Alright then." John pursed his lips. "So...what about Elizabeth?"

"Who?"

"Who-" He stopped, rubbing his face, before bending down and whispering. "The girl. Have you found a place to put her yet?"

Sherlock placed his phone down. "Yes. I think I've found quite a suitable place for her. I just emailed the head sister of the convent and asked her if she would be willing to take our client in."

John stared at him. "Sherlock, that's perfect."

Sherlock sat up straight, giving John a blank look. "You really think so?"

He smiled. "Yeah." Shaking his head, he added, "Wow, I gotta say, I'm kinda surprised at you."

"Why?"

"Well, I don't know. I guess I figured you were going to suggest putting her with your homeless network or something." John chuckled a bit before patting his back, unknowingly leaving Sherlock wide-eyed and stricken, as he headed for the kitchen.

\--

They all had just finished eating. Mary and the young woman sat in John's and Sherlock's chairs, while John went around the room, collecting everyone's plates.

"Thank you, Mary. That was a marvelous dinner," John complimented as he looked back at his friend. "Wasn't it, Sherlock?"

"Exquisite," Sherlock commented flatly from his desk.

John rolled his eyes at him as he carried the dishes to the kitchen. He passed Mary as they exchanged empathetic looks. Facing forward again, Mary smiled at Elizabeth in an attempt to lighten the mood. Elizabeth returned the gesture.

"So..." she began. "You two are getting married?"

Mary nodded. "Mm-hm. Yes."

"Where...do you plan to go? For your honeymoon, I mean."

Mary groaned exaggeratedly. "We still haven't decided yet. Now, I really want to go to either Hawaii or Australia but John seems to think that won't be any fun."

"We can't afford either of those places," John interjected from the other room.

Mary rolled her eyes playfully, encouraging Elizabeth to laugh a little.

"You know...Cruises are a lot of fun. I took one once with a friend of mine to Spain."

"Not a friend," Sherlock muttered from his desk.

She looked over her shoulder. "Pardon?"

He didn't respond.

"Ooh, John." Mary touched his arm as he reentered the lounge. "We haven't talked about Spain yet."

Sherlock joined in. "Ah. That would be right up your alley, John."

"Oh? How so?" John asked, sitting down in a chair next to Mary.

He shrugged. "I think you would find the beaches to be, oh...reminiscent to the images on your com-"

"Sherlock," Mary quickly interrupted. "Maybe you'd like to join us the rest of us over here."

"Someone's in my chair."

"Should I move?" Elizabeth braced herself against the chair's arms.

"No!" John and Mary exclaimed.

She sank back down.

"No, you stay right there," Mary added, holding out her hand.

"Sherlock, quit being a dick and come sit with us."

"Uh-" Mary shook her head at him as she tugged his sleeve.

"Oh." John covered his mouth, realizing his mistake.

"Elizabeth, you mentioned earlier you were taking a break from school." Mary asked, trying desperately to change the subject. "What were you studying?"

Following all the commotion, it took her a minute to catch up to the question. "Uh, well, I'm in the middle of working on my masters in Child Psychology and then after one more year, I'll be going for my PhD."

"Really? Is that something you've always wanted to study?"

"Initially, no. I actually wanted to study piano but there's really not much money in that so I decided to try something new instead."

Mary leaned to her right. "There you go, Sherlock. There's something you can talk about. Elizabeth, here, plays the piano."

Turning to sit sideways, Sherlock directed his answer to Elizabeth. "I noticed. You have about twenty years of experience, correct?"

"Noticed?" she repeated.

"That would have made you about five years old when you started learning." He turned to John. "Certainly couldn't have been much younger."

It was silent in the few seconds it took for John to realize what that had meant. "Oh, come on!"

Sherlock smirked.

"Don't you do that." He pointed accusingly at him. "Don't act like you worked that out from that. You were just guessing."

Sherlock spoke his next words, slow and simple. "I never guess."

John threw his hand up. "Make up your mind, would you?"

Elizabeth sat forward. "What is happening?" she whispered.

Mary waved her hand. "Nothing. It's just a little game they play." Tilting her head up, she called out, "Okay, Sherlock. Its time. You've stalled long enough." She reached down next to her seat for a large, powder blue shoe box. "Come look through this with me."

"Isn't this something your chief bridesmaid should be assisting you with?"

Mary snorted. "Do you have any idea who she works for? I was lucky enough to get her for our wedding." She paused before adding, "And for our engagement party by the way ."

Making a slight groaning sound, he got up and dragged a wooden desk chair to a spot across from John.

Mary rummaged through the box and pulled out a metal ring with little, square pieces of cloth attached. "Here. We'll start with this." She passed the pieces to Sherlock. "What do you think of these?"

He dangled the pieces from his index finger. "You've just handed me five, four by four pieces of fabric, each made from a different material and/or sewn with a different weave pattern. What exactly am I supposed to think of this?"

"They're tablecloth samples. Which one do you like best?"

He briefly looked through the samples before selecting one. "Just do this one. Elegant, yet simple enough that it won't take the focus off of our bride." He gave Mary a warm smile as he attempted to hand her back the samples.

"Aww, Sherlock..." Mary placed a hand to her chest, looking to John before reaching across and picking another piece from his hand. "But maybe...take a look at this one again."

"Mm, no. Too shiny. Definitely not that one."

Mary frowned. Taking the square piece from his hand, she waved it front of his face. "But it's pretty."

"No. It's loud. Here." He snatched the samples and passed them to Elizabeth. "Maybe you'd like another female's opinion." He turned to her. "What do you say, Beth?"

Elizabeth slowly flipped through the squares before holding out the same one Sherlock had picked. "This one-My name's not Beth."

"Ah. See that?" Sherlock gloated. "The young lady agrees with me."

She tried again. "Mr. Holmes. It's Elizabeth."

He whipped his head to her. "Sorry?"

"It's not Beth and it's not Lisa. I'd like to be called Elizabeth, if you wouldn't mind."

"Fine, whatever." He dismissed her quickly, focusing again on Mary. "Sorry, Mary. I'm afraid-"

"No. It's not whatever." Elizabeth interrupted. "How would you like it if I called you by another name?"

He looked at her quizzicality. "What else could you possibly call me?"

John and Mary exchanged looks. This was getting interesting.

Adjusting herself in his chair, she confidently suggested, "How 'bout your real name?"

His eyes narrowed. "And how do you know my name isn't my real name?"

"Well, I would hope your parents loved you."  
  
Opening his mouth slightly, Sherlock furrowed his brows at her while John and Mary, unhelpfully, laughed at his reaction. He diverted his eyes from the smug, young woman before him to John, who looked amusingly at him and angled himself away from the group.

Elizabeth grinned as she peered over at him. "So what is it, anyway?"

John shook his head. "He's not going to tell you. He hasn't even told me yet."

"Ask John what his middle name is."

"God-" John winced, stopping himself.

Mary stifled a laugh.

Elizabeth looked from John to Mary. "Wait. What's so funny?"

John said nothing as he glared at Sherlock.

"What are you waiting for, John? She wants to know."

"Sherlock. I swear I will-"

"Oh calm down, John." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "What I wouldn't give to have an interesting name like you two."

"Actually..." Elizabeth chimed in. "I read a study once claiming run of the mill names are better for success and making friends."

"Really?" Mary inquired.

"Yes, it said has to do more with how people perceive you rather than how you perceive yourself."

"How interesting."

"For God's sake..." Unable to take it anymore, Sherlock abruptly got up and went towards the bookshelf.

"Small talk killing you, Sherlock?" John asked.

He didn't answer. Running his finger across the book titles, he repeated to himself a series of words. He stopped on the second shelf from the top at a thin, bright yellow paperback and pulled it from it's slot. It read, _Clever Puzzles for Clever Folks_.

"So I'm assuming that was for school, right?"

"Yes. In fact I-"

"Here. Solve this puzzle and I'll tell you my name." He shoved in her face the puzzle book he found, with a pencil wedged between the pages.

John and Mary exchanged looks again.

Elizabeth hesitantly took the book. "That's it?"

Sherlock sat down. "That's it. Although I'm confident you won't solve it. It's, by far, the most difficult puzzle in the book."

John stared at the book curiously. "Hang on. Isn't that the puzzle book I got you for Christmas?"

Sherlock turned to John, crossing his legs. "Why, yes it is."

"I thought you would like something like that. You've barely touched it."

"No. I did. I solved all of them. It took me ten whole minutes."

"Don't fib," Mary scolded.

"An hour," Sherlock admitted. "It took me an hour."

Elizabeth flipped through all the pages. "There's nothing written in it."

John gave Sherlock a look that said, 'What the Hell?'

"Course there isn't anything written in it. Writing's boring. I did it all in here." He pointed to his head.

"That's three hundred pages!" John exclaimed.

"Yes, and I assure you they were all quite challenging."

Mary tried to stifle her laugher.

John sighed as he slouched back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Perfect waste of a gift."

\--

"Well...I think that went well," Mary commented, driving her and John home from Sherlock's later that night.

"Yes." John nodded. "Yes. I think we made good progress."

"Let's see. We covered center pieces, table cloths, wine glasses..."

"Mm-hm. And the name cards too. I remember those."

"Oh good. You did pay attention."

John chuckled. "Well it is my wedding too."

They laughed a little, allowing themselves to drift into their own thoughts as they silently drove. After a while, Mary spoke up again.

"So, that was kinda weird, wasn't it?"

"Hmm?" John seemed to have started dosing off. "What was?"

"That whole...puzzle thing."

He sat up. "Oh, right. Yeah, I don't know. I think he was just being a show off. He likes to do that."

Mary started slowly. "You mean he likes to show off for pretty girls?"

"No, no..." He shook his head. "It's not really like that for him. I think it's just for anyone, really."

"So he's never even taken an interest in anyone before?"

"Since I've known him...I only saw one person."

Mary thought for a moment. "Oh right. You wrote about her in your blog. The Woman."

"Yep." He laughed to himself. "It took a dominatrix extorting all of England to even turn his head."

She raised a brow. "Dominatrix?"

John closed his eyes briefly. "It's a long story. My point is, very few people can actually catch his attention."

Mary shrugged. "You caught his."

"Yeah, but that's different. It's not the same thing."

Mary nodded. "You're right...After all, you're the only person he really wants on all his galavanting."

John groaned as he threw his head back. "Oh Jesus..."

"Why on earth would you use me as an excuse to not spend time with your best friend?"

"I-I was just trying to be considerate of you."

"Oh John," Mary griped. "I've told you before. I don't mind if you go out crime solving every once in a while. It's what you to do together."

"No, it's what we _did_ together. Now that I have you, its not worth putting you in danger. Not after that fire."

"What? This is about the fire? Please. It's one trip to Manchester."

John wagged his finger. "Oh, no. No." He laughed frustratedly. "It's never one trip. Trust me. Sherlock always has a way of pulling me in to these kinds of things."

"Well I think you're taking him for granted."

"What are you-I'm not taking him for granted."

"Sure..."

"He's my best friend. We still see each other all the time." His voice raised to a defensive tone. "I'm not taking him for granted."

"Alright then."

"I'm not."

"Alright. I believe you."

They were quiet again. This time it was uncomfortable. Mary shifted her eyes to John, attempting to try a different approach.

"Just...have fun, okay?" She reached over and patted his knee, "Enjoy yourself...for me." and gave him a pouty smile.

John softened and let out a small laugh. "Okay...Okay, fair enough."

\--

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock continued to work at his desk in silence while the young woman sat at the far end of the sofa, reading the book he had so kindly allowed her to borrow. With each turn of the page, the sound jumped out at him in the dead quiet, causing him to glance her way at every occasion. She closed the book after a few minutes and made her way to the bookshelf.

"Mr. Holmes? May I read another one of your books?" she asked as she placed the novel back in its slot.

"You're lying."

Elizabeth took her hand away from the shelf and slowly turned around. "Pardon?"

"You didn't finish that book."

The young woman was confused. "....But I did. Just now in fact."

Sherlock looked back at her. "That book has roughly nine hundred pages with well over two-hundred thousand words printed in it."

"Yes. I know..."

He adjusted himself, sitting sideways. "I went out at around one this afternoon and you were still asleep. Assuming you had started reading the very moment I left, that would have given you roughly three and a half hours on the book plus the half hour you've just spent 'finishing' it. And, yes, while highly improbable, it's not entirely inconceivable; however, I've actually come to my conclusion on the basis that you read at a below average speed as evidenced by the minimum of two minutes you've spent on each page. Now, either that means you are dyslexic or you are simply just lazy, but I'll go ahead give you credit for the former considering the biggest piece of evidence stacked against you is the fact that only the pages after seven hundred and fifty or so have their corners curved in the upward position. To any ordinary person, reading that whole book within four hours, would be astonishing, but I, on the other hand, would have to inform you I find your feeble attempts to deceive me to be quite silly."

He turned back to his work without another word, leaving Elizabeth to stare at the back of his head.

Stepping away from the bookshelf, she smiled a little, parting her mouth. "You're right." She stopped just a couple of feet from him. "This afternoon, I started on page seven hundred and fifty-nine..."

"See? You know you can't-"

"-where I left off in my copy back home."

Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keys.

"Don't worry. Everything else was spot on."

It took Sherlock a moment to respond. "Giving up on the puzzle already? Figured as much."

The young woman scoffed. "No. I already solved it." She folded her arms and shrugged. "Too easy if you ask me."

"Doubt it. Bring it here."

Elizabeth walked confidently to the sofa to retrieve the puzzle book sitting on the center cushion. Sherlock suspended his hand as she made her way back. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he took the puzzle from her and glanced over it.

"Nope. Try again." He tried to hand it back.

"Oh my God. Now you're lying."

Sherlock extended his arm. "Look closer. You forgot one of the rules."

She bent over to see. "Oh-Damn it." Snatching it away, she turned to leave.

"Come back here. I need to ask you a few questions." A chair across from him pushed out from under the desk.

Elizabeth waited before laying down the puzzle on the coffee table and taking the chair offered to her. She placed it to his right side and sat down.

"Now then, tell me everything you know about the Addison murder."

She was confused again. "Addison...murder?"

"Yes. Timothy Addison. Your ex-boyfriend's former flatmate as well as your former flatmate's deceased boyfriend. What do you know about his murder?"

"He killed himself."

"Wrong. He was murdered. What do you know about it? Quickly now." Sherlock made a hurrying gesture with his hand.

"I only know...that he killed himself."

Sherlock resisted the urged to roll his eyes. "Okay. Fair enough. Then I will ask you, instead, to consider the information I just gave you, use it to adjust your understanding of that event, and then ask you once more..." He continued, enunciating his last words. "What do you know?"

She lowered her brow. "Why are you even asking me this? This has nothing to do with my case."

"Clever girl," he said sarcastically. "Inquiring about my question on a case that you've noticed has _nothing_ to do with you."

She huffed.

"Why, indeed, would I be trying to solve the murder of a boy at your school?"

Folding her arms, and slouching back in her chair, she muttered, "I don't know. Maybe my case is too boring for you."

"Nope. That's just you. Boring and lazy..."

Her mouth opened.

"I don't just let any lippy, doe-eyed girl take shelter in my home, so..." He continued firmly. "Unless you'd like to spend the rest of your night on the curb, I suggest you put that imagination of yours to use and _think_ of something!"

Elizabeth sat up straight, "Alright! Alright!" and held out her hand at him. "God. Hold on..." She directed her eyes down and thought for a moment. "You think Henry is involved...If that could be proven then..." She bit her tongue. "That could weaken his defense in my case?"

"See? There you go. That wasn't so hard."

She sighed. "I don't know if I'm going to be much help though. I barely knew him."

"That doesn't matter. Any information at all could be valuable." He tapped his index on the keyboard. "What about the note? Did you ever see it?"

"The note?"

"Yes. The suicide note. Did you see it?"

"Oh! The letter!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

She shook her head, "No. I never saw it." and suddenly looked up. "But I did hear what was written."

"Any recollection of what you heard?"

"Um..." Tilting her head higher, she answered, "Something like, 'I still love you, Rebecca' and...'I did something unforgivable but...I'm praying for a miracle.'"

"Interesting. Sounds rather hopeful...How long were those two together?"

"Since childhood, I think. Same schools. Same church. And she was a year older than him too so they did the long distance thing for that first year of uni before he showed up for the Fall. I think after about a week was when they broke up."

Sherlock spoke to himself. "Only with one person her whole life and ends it only after he gets to university. He must have slept with someone..."

He sat there, resting his finger against his lips. It wasn't until he heard a chair creak that he pulled his eyes in Elizabeth's direction and noticed she had turned her face away.

"Oh. It was you. Now we're getting somewhere."

She whipped her head. "What?! No! I didn't-"

"Eyes directed at the floor, blood rushing to your face, and the raised pitch in your voice indicates shame and defensiveness. That tells me it only happened once before your roommate found out."

"He lied! I didn't know-"

"Calm down. I'm not judging you."

"I-I was going through something difficult at the time. I'm not really like that-"

"I know. That was right around the time your parents died, yes?"

"Oh my God." She had had enough. Clutching her forehead and speaking quickly, she pleaded, "Stop doing that. Stop reading my mind."

"I'm not reading your mind. I'm reading you."

"Reading me?! How-"

"Easy. You're transparent."

"I-I'm what?" She tried again. "I don't understand."

"Transparent," Sherlock repeated. "Self revealing even when you think you've concealed yourself. Most people are, well, to me anyway. They wear their hearts and in your case, like an accessory." He pointed to her. "Your grandmother's engagement ring and the locket containing your family pictures you keep tucked under your collar tells me you are inclined to express your emotions to others whether or not you consciously choose to do so. It's the reason people like your ex can so easily take advantage of-"

He stopped and winced. Upon seeing her tightened face and glistening eyes he knew he had gone too far.

"Let me rephrase that."

Elizabeth held up her hand to stop him. "No." Taking a breath, she added. "No, I get it. I do. You think...that I was in love with him."

If Sherlock had a response for her, then he had decided, instead, it was best not to voice it.

"I mean, I get why, but...no, that was more convenience than anything else...although I did sort of like him..." She almost laughed. Shaking her head at the notion, she continued. "I waited too long." She looked straight ahead at him. "If I didn't stay for my survival then my pride would've gotten the best of me anyway, but love had nothing to do with it." She moved her head, back and forth, in small, slow motions, wrinkling her face. "Not with him."

Sherlock stared intently at her, giving no indication of his understanding other than his silence.

"What other questions do you have for me?"

"...We're done for now."

She nodded. "Okay, so um...Can I ask where I'm going tomorrow?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "Well, I'm still waiting hear back but if it all works out, you should be staying with the Sisters of Mercy at a convent nearby."

"A convent?"

"I was able to solve a problem for them regarding a rather gruesome practical joke orchestrated by some of the sisters-in-training. Needless to say, I expect there to be some vacancies."

Elizabeth averted her eyes, making a disinterested face.

He blinked. "You're not pleased." He sat forward. "Could this have something to do with your Jewish heritage?"

"What?!" She shook her head. "No, I-never mind. Just put me with the nuns."

She sat back and watched herself pick at the ends of her nails. Sherlock observed, perplexed by the deduction he made about her.

"Why would you want stay here?"

Elizabeth shoved her hands down between her knees and sighed. "I don't know. I guess..." She looked around the room anxiously. "This is the place I ran to. This is the place where I was taken in. Where I finally slept. I..." She paused, rubbing her arm. "...feel content here." Meeting his eyes, she continued. "I'm sorry if that's weird for you. I really don't want to be a bother."

He looked away to think. Tapping his fingers on the desk, he thought long and hard before turning back to her, and taking a breath. "Tell you what. I'll make a deal with you. You can stay..."

Her face lit up.

"...a _few_ more nights and in return I want your full cooperation on this case. You answer every question I have honestly and you agree not to hold back any information. Any at all pertaining to both cases. Are we clear?"

Elizabeth nodded enthusiastically. "Yes." Extending her hand out to him across the desk, she smiled with gratitude. "Deal."

He looked down at her hand for a second before looking back at her. Taking her hand in his own, he gave it one firm shake, confirming their agreement.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a nice, clear morning, as they drove up the highway in their grey, rental hatchback. Sherlock sat behind the wheel, keeping his eyes perfectly fixed on the road while John sat in the passenger, struggling to keep his eyes open. John let out a mix between a groan and a sigh as he stretched his arms out in front of him.

"This is such a long drive." John rolled his head along the head cushion towards Sherlock. "I still think we should have taken the train. We would have been there by now."

"This way's quieter."

John faced forward again. "Could've had our meal on the way."

Without taking his eyes off the road, Sherlock reached behind John's seat and tossed a puffed out, yellow package onto John's lap.

"Crisps?"

John bent over for the package that rolled down to his feet. "Yes. Thanks." He opened the bag and eagerly stuffed a couple of the potato crisps in his mouth. "It's kinda weird, isn't it?" John asked as he chuckled through his chewing. "It's been a little while since we've done this sort of thing and yet it's like we've never stopped. Like it's just in our blood, you know?"

Sherlock blinked. "You think it's been a while?"

"Yeah, well, the last one was that train car bomb back in November."

Sherlock acted as if this was news to him. "Hmm. I guess it has been some time then."

John hummed in agreement.

"Hardly my fault," Sherlock added under his breath as he glanced out his window.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

John was pretty sure he knew what he heard but he decided not to press it. Instead, he opted to bring up a different matter.

"You know..." John started, thinking of how to word it. "I couldn't help but notice that girl is still in your flat."

Sherlock's eyes widen momentarily. "Oh?"

"Mm-hmm..." He reached in the bag for another crisp. "I mean, she was just sitting there on your sofa, reading." He paused before adding, "She even said, 'Hi,' to me, when I walked in." Taking the whole crisp in his mouth, he waited patiently for Sherlock's answer.

"...Well, I suppose that would be difficult to miss."

"Oh, definitely." John smiled as he stared.

Sherlock stayed silent, willfully trying to ignore this rather uncomfortable conversation.

John placed the bag of crisps aside and adjusted himself to be more angled towards him. "You mind...explaining that whole situation for me, cause I'm not sure I'm getting it, you know. _You_..." He jabbed his index towards Sherlock. "...keeping a girl in your flat."

Sherlock waited a second before responding. "I received an email from the sisters, yesterday, detailing their current occupation with the renovations of their living quarters, along with their regrets to inform me there are no available spaces for our client at this time."

"Ah." John nodded. "So you'll have to find another place then."

"Evidently."

"And how's that working out for you?"

Sherlock turned to John, clearly over this topic. "I'm sorry?"

"Living with a woman. How's that working out?"

"In the vicinity of a woman," he quickly corrected, facing the road again.

"Fine then. How is it living...in the vicinity of a woman?"

Sherlock shrugged casually. "Seems to be going well, although I don't see her too often. Most of the time, she's upstairs in your room."

John nodded along before suddenly sitting forward. "My room?"

"That or downstairs, conversing with Mrs. Hudson over what they would have me believe to be 'tea and biscuits'. I'm fairly certain I know what that translates to."

John shook his head. "No, you said, quote, 'your room'."

Sherlock's eyes darted to John. "Yes. The bedroom upstairs. Is there a problem?"

John nearly laughed out of bewilderment. "Of course there isn't a problem! It's not my room anymore."

"It's never been anyone else's."

He scoffed. "Yes, it has! Lots of people. Sherlock." He emphasized his next words. "I moved out, okay? So..." He lifted his shoulders. "You can have...whoever you'd like up there."

"I appreciate your cooperation."

John leaned back into his seat. "Whatever pretty..."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"young..."

His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

"someone you want up there," John finished, keeping his eyes focus on him.

Sherlock sat frozen, under John's curious gaze. He kept his mouth agape, unable to respond until he managed to utter a string of unrelated syllables after a few tries.

"Rebecca Norton."

John lifted a brow. "Who?"

"Before he died, Timothy had a girlfriend named Rebecca."

John shook his head, laughing silently to himself.

"She was one year older. They spent nearly every waking moment together until she left for university. During that first year, they maintained their relationship long distance and afterwards, continued to see each other once he started his first year at the same school." He held up his finger, adding, "That is, until she discovered Timothy had a one night stand with, unbeknownst to him, her flatmate.

"Oh shit..." John voiced empathetically.

Sherlock nodded. "She ended it immediately after only one week of classes had passed. Two weeks after that, Timothy is dead, with a note in his pocket detailing his guilt and remorse over the entire ordeal."

"So you're saying you think this girl might be involved then."

"I'm saying she might be the center of it. Henry Pinkerton and Rebecca Norton were both second-year students. If, by chance, they had known each other the previous year, Timothy's murder could have been just a simple act of jealousy."

"But she broke up with him, right? Why would he need to kill him?"

"I'm thinking Timothy wasn't willing to give her up that easily. Considering they were flatmates, possibly after the same girl..."

John continued for him. "Things got heated up and a fight ensued..."

"Thus leading to Timothy's demise amongst the construction rubbish with a morbid note to explain it all."

John let out a laugh in amazement.

Sherlock smiled. "This one's pretty good, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

They gave each other brief looks of mutual excitement.

\--

Sherlock and John sat waiting with a man, looking to be in his fifties, at a round, wooden table that seated four. From their left, a woman, around the same age as the man, emerged from a hallway beyond the kitchen, carrying a stack of well used photo books.

"Thank you so much for coming all the way out here. We've been trying to get answers for years, but the police just wouldn't listen to us." The older woman placed the photo books down. "I could never believe our Timothy would ever commit such a terrible act," she said, shaking her head. She smiled to fight the impending tears. "He was always such a good boy. Full of life and the love of God." Sitting down next to the older man, she reached across and carefully spread the books out on the table.

"He was studying to become a reverend," the older man said. "That's why he chose to major in philosophy."

John pulled one the photo books closer and started looking through it.

"He insisted he would get a better education in London rather than at one of the schools here." The woman paused to take a breath. "I...I wish I could have talked him out of it."

"Mrs. Addison..." Sherlock leaned forward, keeping his fingers entwined in front of him. "You don't believe your son was capable of ending his life, do you?"

John looked up from the photos at Sherlock.

"No..." Mrs. Addison shook her head. "Never. He knew that suicide is a sin." She reached for Mr. Addison's hand. "We raised him to find solutions to his problems and to always come to us for guidance." She turned to gaze at her husband before continuing. "And he always did."

John pulled his chair in closer. "Do you think that there may be something Timothy was upset about before he passed?"

Sherlock turned to look at John.

The couple was quiet. Mr. Addison hesitated before speaking.

"W-we didn't know at the time-"

"James! Hush!" his wife exclaimed.

"Linda, they can't help if they don't know!"

Mrs. Addison huffed as she released his hand. "Fine." She brushed her short, salt and pepper hair back and sighed once more. "Timothy...strayed slightly...Met some girl at a party."

Mr. Addison rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Some girl?" He turned to Sherlock and John. "He shagged her flatmate."

"No!" She wagged her finger at her husband, "No!" and then turned back to them and did the same. "It wasn't like that. She seduced him!"

John held his hand out. "'Her flatmate.'" He held open the photo book. "You're talking about the girl in all these photos?" he asked, pointing to a photo of a little, brunette boy and a redheaded girl.

Mr. Addison nodded. "Rebecca Clemens."

"It's Norton now," Mrs. Addison muttered begrudgingly.

Mr. Addison pointed to the photo. "These two were inseparable. They went to the library to study together. They've gone biking, hiking, canoeing..." He paused to open another photo book. "He took her to the school dance in his 11th year..." The page he turned to showed the same boy and girl, only much older, standing together, dressed in semi-formal wear.

"Her mother and I had their whole wedding planned out." Mrs. Addison smiled to herself before letting her face fall. "Well, it was just talk. He was going to propose to her on her birthday."

"But they broke up before that could happen," Sherlock stated.

She nodded. "If he had just stayed here and never met that trollop..."

Mr. Addison's dropped his head, groaning. "Linda, we've been over this. Our boy screwed up."

"I don't want to hear it." Mrs. Addison crossed her arms.

"It was a fluke. She said the girl didn't have a clue."

"I don't care! She should have left her alone all after that." She turned away from the rest of them. "Probably would have been the one decent thing she's ever done in her life."

John was struggling to keep up. "Wait, wait. I'm sorry? Left her alone?"

Mrs. Addison smiled bitterly and looked John square in the eyes. "They're friends now. Can you believe it?" Her voice started to break. "Not one year after our Timothy's passed and they're off in Spain together."

John's eyes widen. "Spain?"

Sherlock cut in. "What do you know about Timothy's flatmate?"

Mrs. Addison looked questioningly at her husband. "Um...Henry. Wasn't it?"

"Yeah, he was a good lad. He gave us all a tour of the campus on Timothy's first day."

John continued to look through the photo book Mr. Addison had opened. He squinted his eyes at one of them before responding. "And they got along?"

Mr. Addison shrugged. "I think so. He never said anything bad about him."

John nodded. "Hmm, okay. Now, I'm a bit curious about these bruises here I keep seeing." He tapped a photo of Timothy and Rebecca with one other male companion.

Timothy, with brown and purple bruising scattered across his legs, stood between the two on a dirt trail, posing in front of a green landscape.

"Are these sport-related or did he have some sort of condition?"

"Both," Mrs. Addison answered. "He had hemophilia."

"We could never keep him from getting hurt for long. He just loved the outdoors."

"It was always something, nearly everyday." Mrs. Addison pulled her lips in. "It might sound awful to say this but we never thought we'd lose him...this way."

Mr. Addison placed an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "When we first heard what happened, we figured he just fell from scaling a building. He did a lot of, um...what's it called?" Mr. Addison turned to his wife, rotating his hand.

"Park something?"

"Parkour," Sherlock provided.

"That's it!" She pointed to him, before throwing her head back. "Ugh. Drove me up the wall. He and his friend, Nathaniel, broke my window planter, one time, spidering up our house."

"Is that him here?" John asked, pointing to a dark haired teen, looking to be of Indian descent.

Mr. Addison leaned over to see the photo. "That's him. Bit of a third wheel, that one."

"He was always tagging along with the two of them. He gave Rebecca, especially quite a bit of attention if you know what I mean."

"Yes and every fight I remember they had was over her."

"Where can we find him?" Sherlock asked.

"He's a rock climbing instructor at the complex down the main road."

"Surprise, surprise," Mrs. Addison said flatly.

John turned to Sherlock. "Well, I guess that's our next stop."

Sherlock nodded to John before addressing the Addisons. "Before we head out. I was hoping we could have a look at the note."

Mrs. Addison tilted her head and looked at her husband. "Note?" He shrugged in response and then she opened her mouth in realization. "Oh, of course. Actually, we don't have the letter anymore."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Rebecca came by about a year ago, and asked if she could keep it. She said it reminded her of the letters Timothy used to write her." She laid her hand at the top of her breast. "My boy was so romantic."

"Where can we find her?"

Mrs. Addison answered, "She's still in London. Married now, with a child. I can email you the address when I talk with her mother tomorrow."

"That'll do just fine." Sherlock stood up and pushed his chair in. "Thank you for your time, Mr. and Mrs. Addison." He reached to shake Mr. Addison's hand.

John followed after. "Yes. Thank you."

Mrs. Addison clasped her hands together under her chin. "I hope we gave you enough to work with."

Sherlock gave her a reassuring smile, placing a hand on her arm. "You gave us plenty."

Just as Sherlock and John were heading for the door, Mrs. Addison chased after them and tapped their shoulders.

"Oh! Wait!"

They stopped and turned around to see Mrs. Addison smiled lovingly at them.

"You two are such nice young men. Let me just give you something I think will help you on your journey." With that, she ran off down the hall.

\--

"Always! Every bloody time..."

John walked along side Sherlock down a tiled hallway, angrily waving a blue pamphlet in front of him.

Sherlock sighed. "Relax. I got one too." He reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out an identical pamphlet, before casually placing it back in.

Taking a deep breath to calm down, John reached into Sherlock's pocket for the pamphlet, and placed it with his own in a nearby bin.

Sherlock directed his eyes to John. "Are you-"

"I'm fine," John answered abruptly. He repeated in a normal voice, "I am fine."

Sherlock nodded, seemingly excepting his answer. As they got to the end of the hall, they walked into a large complex, consisting of multiple floors with exercise machines, various ball games, and a massive rock climbing wall towards the back.

"There. That's him," Sherlock said, pointing straight ahead.

They made their way to the rock wall, where a group of kids were gathered around a fit, dark haired man, in workout attire. The instructor was trying to encourage a stubborn little girl who clang on to the wall's multi-colored grips for dear life.

"Come on, Lucy. Just one foot up here."

John approached the instructor, standing just a few respectable feet away. "Excuse me."

The instructor glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, hey! Here to see your kid in action?"

John looked to Sherlock awkwardly. "Uh, no. No, no. You see, we are-"

The instructor laughed. "Thank God. For a second there, I thought I was going to have to lie and tell you how great your kid's doin'." He knelt down next to the girl. "Okay, let's see if we can get you two feet from the ground, yeah?" He glanced over his shoulder again. "So how can I help you, gentlemen?"

Sherlock stepped forward. "We are here to discuss your friend, Timothy Addison."

The instructor slowly stood up and turned towards them. "No way..." Getting excited, he resisted the urge to jump up and down. "You're those detectives that came back from the dead!"

"Well actually that was just him-"

"Okay, Lucy! Time to get down." Nathaniel had turned back to the group of kids and started unhooking the equipment off the little girl. "Let's take five, alright? There's some nice juice boxes over there for you."

He pointed to a table, displaying red and purple boxes ready to be snatched up by the eager children. Snickering at the sight of the rowdy kids running up to the table, he turned back to Sherlock and John, with his hand outstretched.

"Nathan Willis," he announced, shaking both of their hands proudly. "So, I take it you just came from Timothy's parents', am I right?"

John pulled his hand back. "Yeah, actually. They were just telling us what good friends you were."

"Ah, come on. It's fine. Tell me what they really said about me."

John scratched his head as he winced. "Uh, well, they said you were a third wheel, quite frankly."

"They seemed to think you took an interest in Timothy's girlfriend, Rebecca."

Nathan folded his arms, bobbing his head slowly. "Huh..." He looked up, searching through his surroundings before pointing to the next level up, at a body builder type. "See that good looking bloke there, in the red shorts?"

John looked to where he was pointing, answering wearily, "Uh...I do see a guy..."

"I'm going to let you in on little something." Nathan rubbed his palms together, still looking up at the body builder. "I'm going to pop him the big one tonight." He leaned in. "The big question."

It took John a moment. "Oh!"

Sherlock mumbled impatiently to himself.

"Yep. God, I'm nervous..."

"Well congrats. I, uh, just got engaged myself, actually."

"Dude!" Nathan exclaimed, holding his hand up high. "Put it there!"

"Oh." John hesitated before giving his hand a weak slap and chuckling.

A loud throat clearing sound came from beside John, interrupting their good fun.

"Oh, uh..." John returned to a more serious demeanor. "Right. So I guess that means..."

"That's right. I'm surprised James and Linda haven't picked up on it yet. It's not like I'm hiding it or anything."

"Then can you explain the fights you two had over Timothy's girlfriend?" Sherlock asked.

Nathan shook his head. "Nah. You see, I was never fighting over her, just...on her behalf, really."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

He sighed. "Listen...Tim was my best friend, okay? He was a really good guy and I wanted nothing more than for it work out for them, but he was screwing up royally with her."

"So you knew about how he cheated on her?"

"Yeah, I knew but he was already in hot water way before his hook up." He looked behind him, before continuing in a lower volume. "He was getting... _impatient_ , if catch my drift."

John tipped his head up. "Ah...and I'm guessing she wanted to wait till marriage."

Nathan shrugged. "I think she just wanted to wait, period. She told me, once, the whole idea kind of made her uneasy, but...I guess she must have gotten over it. She's married to a doctor now."

"That's right. Mrs. Addison mentioned Timothy was going to propose."

"Yeah, and they were doing great at that point too, until he started his first year at uni and that wanker flatmate of his, got into his head." His shoulders tensed up. "Teasing him about being a virgin and telling him he should just 'claim what's his.'"

John and Sherlock exchange looks.

"Really?"

"Hold on." Nathan held up his hand, shaking his head. "He would never do that, of course but he, uh...did take it too far one night. And she was pissed, of course. Just his luck, his buddy was there to pick up the pieces." He spoke the last statement with bitterness in his voice.

"Do you suspect his flatmate took an interest in her?" Sherlock inquired.

"Oh, dude. Take a number. Everyone was interested in Rebecca. I mean, they showed you the pictures, right?"

Sherlock, of course, remained silent while John stumbled over his words.

"They're...nice pictures, yes."

"Yeah, so it wouldn't surprise me to learn he was after her, but it would have been one and done deal. Tim told me he'd seen a different girl walked out of his bedroom every morning."

John's eyes widen. "Goodness."

"Is there anything else you can tell us?"

Nathan looked down for a moment. "He...called me up that night, actually. Before he jumped, or...fell. The guy was a drunken mess, and he...told me things I never wanted to hear from him." He shook his head, trying to keep his composure before continuing. "His parents never accepted that he killed himself, but for me, I never questioned it. A broken heart will do that to you."

John nodded sympathetically.

Nathan let out a weak laugh and clapped his hands together. "But...seeing as you two are here, it seems it may not be that simple."

"We're looking into some things," Sherlock answered.

"Good," he said firmly, giving them a serious look. He said it once more as he glanced back at the group of kids. His jaw dropped as he turned again. "Oh, fuck."

Sherlock and John watched as Nathan ran through the crowd of kids to pull the little girl off the rock wall she had managed to climb without assistance.

"Bad idea, Lucy." Nathan put her down and kneeled down in front of her, "Now, I've said this before. We never climb the wall without our safety gear and my supervision. Do you understand?"

A smile of endearment creeped on John's face as he watched the instructor and the girl. Sherlock took notice of this and turned his head away.

After letting the girl go, Nathan walked back up to them. "Hey, I've gotta go, but if you've got any more questions, my card's at the front desk." He turned to go back to the kids.

Sherlock made one step towards him. "One more thing before we go. Do you know of anyone else we should talk to?"

Nathan turned back. "How's a whole class sound? We're having a reunion of sort tonight, at the school. Tim mostly hung with us, older kids, so you'll get a lot of people who knew him. I think Rebecca might even be there."

"You can get us in?" John asked.

"Sure can. Just send me a text and I'll get you the time and place, okay?" Once again, he walked off towards the kids, leaving Sherlock and John to head the other direction.

"So..." Sherlock started. "Reunion?"

John sighed. "We're not getting home tonight, are we?

\--

It was several hours later when Sherlock and John burst through the doors of a popular hotel.

"So you'll catch her back in London." John walked briskly, trying to keep up with Sherlock.

"I don't understand. Why can't people be exactly where I need them at all times?!"

"Well you do have a varied schedule."

"Nothing," Sherlock grumbled.

"Maybe if you gave out copies..."

"Nothing at all from that horrid gathering of people. That was a complete waste of my precious time."

"Not to mention that punch was bloody awful."

Sherlock and John turned to face each other before bursting into a fit of giggles. They stopped at the desk, trying to calm down their laughter.

"Seriously. That stuff was like battery acid," John said quietly.

"Which one? The punch or the collective perspiration?" Sherlock tapped the brass, desk bell as John snorted behind his hand.

A young, black girl in a clerk's uniform came out from the back, giving them a welcome smile.

"Hi! What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"I have two rooms booked under Holmes," Sherlock said.

The hotel clerk typed his name into the computer. "Let's see...Oh no. Mr. Holmes. Your card was declined."

"What? That's impossible."

The clerk held her hands up. "It's okay. We still have the rooms available but we'll need another card."

John reached into his wallet and pulled out a silver card. "Here." He reached across to hand it to her.

Sherlock looked at John guiltily. "I-I have another card."

"Yeah, I know. It's fine. You got the car so...I've got this."

Sherlock turned away, speaking a soft, "Thank you."

"Sure."

The clerk handed him the card back. "Here you go. It'll just be a minute while I get your keys." She left for the back room.

The two of them stayed silent as they waited. Sherlock stood straight with his hands behind his back while John leaned over the desk, seemingly in thought. After a few seconds, John snapped his head towards Sherlock.

"Spain."

"No, thank you."

"No. Before, at the Addison's, Timothy's mother said Rebecca went to Spain with the girl he cheated with."

Sherlock looked at John blankly.

"And Elizabeth mentioned at dinner she went on a cruise to Spain with a friend of hers."

Sherlock pressed his lips in as he slowly nodded. "You've got quite a memory there, John."

John smiled knowingly at his friend. "You...I think you forgot to mention some details there, Mr. Gossip."

Sherlock gave a small shrug. "Hardly tactful to discuss our client's intimacies, don't you think?"

"Right..."

Sherlock awkwardly looked away from John's stare. He placed his hands in his pockets and searched around the room for something to focus on. John shook his head at him and faced forward as he leaned his elbows on the desk.

"I tell you, that is one hell of a way to become friends."

"...I'm not so sure about that."

"Oh?"

"I think a dead body takes the prize home for most unconventional kindling of companionship."

They looked back at each other, exchanging small smiles. The door behind the desk opened, revealing the hotel clerk from earlier.

"Alright." She handed the keys to John. "You two are all set. We have complementary coffee twenty-four hours a day in the dining hall over there." She pointed to a room on her right. "The password for our free wifi is on the night stand. And if you have any requests or concerns, just give us a buzz, alright?"

"Sounds good," John said.

"Oh and..." The clerk looked as if she was debating the next thing she would say. "I just thought you should know, I know this neighborhood is sort of...traditional, but here, we are really friendly towards all so you can be yourself here if you'd like."

John narrowed his eyes. "Uh huh."

"We'd like you to feel welcomed."

"Right, uh...How exactly would we be ourselves?"

"Well, if you'd like, we're having a special on our couples suites."

John nodded as she confirmed his suspicions. "Yes. Thank you. We'll keep our rooms, thanks."

The hotel clerk smiled warmly at him before heading to the back room again. John shook his head.

"How many more times is that going to happen?"

He turned to his left only to see an empty space where Sherlock had stood just a minute ago. John looked as if he wasn't surprised.

"Course...coffee," John said, matter-of-factly, before heading for the dining hall.

\--

"Timothy had hemophilia."

Sherlock and John sat across from each other, at a table by a window, drinking coffee.

"We were wrong before, John. He could have died from those first injuries."

John sipped his coffee, "Mmm. Yes," and placed his cup down. "From the pictures I saw it looked like it was a mild form but combined with the alcohol in his system, if there was internal bleeding in a vital organ..."

"It wouldn't take long at all, would it?"

"A matter of minutes."

Sherlock sat back and curled his finger against his bottom lip. "He didn't die from that though. I read the coroner's report. Cause of death was impact." He paused. "The killer; his attacker knew he was dying. Trying to get him to the hospital would effectively be turning themselves in and getting charged with man slaughter."

"So the killer throws the dying boy off the roof to cover up the assault. Lovely."

"It had to be someone who had either personal knowledge of his condition or a decent amount of medical training."

"Pinkerton _was_ his flatmate. That would probably come up in a conversation with him or his parents."

Sherlock didn't respond. He just sat there in deep thought.

"You don't think it's him anymore, do you?"

"He's involved. I know that much."

"The motive still makes sense though. It sounds like he was there at that party. All he had to do was push Timothy and Elizabeth together."

A vibration was heard from John's pocket. He reached in and pulled out his phone to look at the screen.

"There's something missing in all this," Sherlock said. "I'll have to question our client again, tomorrow."

"Mm, yes. Good idea," John answered,

Sherlock gave him an offended look. "Are you even listening to me?"

John looked up quickly. "Huh? Yes, I'm listening."

"Focus, John. If you could keep your head in the game-"

"Yes, yes. Sorry. That was just Mary. It sounds like all the ladies are having a good time chatting."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "What is Mary doing there?"

John was in the middle of taking another sip of his coffee. He sighed as he placed the mug back down. "I kinda...asked Mary to drop by and check on the girl."

"...Why?"

"Just...to see how she's doing, that's all."

"You don't think I'm taking care of her."

John rolled his eyes. "I know you're not taking care of her. Mrs. Hudson is taking care of her."

"Same difference."

John closed his eyes in frustration. "Fine. That's not...really uh..." Stumbling over his words, he took a breath to collect himself. "Okay. Sherlock. You...you do realize that whole thing, that's a very traumatizing thing to go through, yes?"

"Yes. I imagine so," Sherlock answered with annoyance in his voice.

"Right so...I just thought it be best to check up on her. That's all."

He shrugged. "She seemed perfectly fine when I saw her this morning."

"Yes well, people do that, you know. They put on a face."

"Or they might just be accustomed."

"Accustomed?"

"People do that as well."

"But you don't really think anyone could be that unaffected, do you?"

"With enough experience. I'd say entire immediate family six feet below is a start."

Sitting back in his chair, John looked at Sherlock with curiosity. "She told you that?"

"Not in so many words."

"Right...so..."

Sherlock sighed as he set his coffee down. "There's a locket she keeps hidden under her shirt. It has a Celtic cross engraved across the front. Traditionally, that's used to memorialize a loved one or, in this case, two or three. The extra set of hinges is probably an additional photo frame." He picked up his mug, and finished off the last of his coffee.

John stared at him for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"Is there question accompanying that vacant expression?"

"No. No, it's just that...you said before there was a type." He hesitated. "A type that..."

"Checks themselves out?"

"Why are you so sure Timothy isn't one of these people?"

Sherlock looked him the eyes as he answered. "Say you've found yourself staring down into a barrel or perhaps down at the pavement, or floorboards below, whatever finale of choice you'd find most fitting...where would you go to do that?"

John blinked. "Uh..." He was stumped by this question. "I don't know, really. Probably somewhere familiar, maybe comforting, but...that's just me really."

"That isn't most people?"

"Well, who's to say? It's not like we can just walk up and ask them."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "No..." He turned to the window beside them, staring out into the black behind the pane. "No, we can't."


	6. Chapter 6

It was just after lunch when John and Mary sat with Sherlock at his desk, looking through sample wedding photos on a white computer tablet.

"Ooh..." Mary said. "This woman's rather good. Look at these." She handed her tablet to John and scooted closer to look through the pictures with him.

"Oh, wow..." John continued to swipe through the photos, looking approvingly at them. "Yeah, these are good."

"Right? The colors are so vibrant."

Sherlock, who hadn't bothered to help up until now, looked up from his computer and tried to peek over. "Let me see."

He reached for the tablet and took it from John's hands before he could even offer it. John stared at his empty hands and sighed to himself as Sherlock scanned through each photo. After a few seconds, Sherlock handed him back the tablet.

"Terrible. Don't hire her."

Mary looked confused. "Why not?"

"Over photoshopped to compensate for lack of talent. Have you ever heard of orange hydrangeas?" As Sherlock turned his attention back to his laptop, he caught a glimpse of something past Mary. "Elizabeth. Move away from the window. Someone will see you."

Elizabeth released the lace curtain she had pulled back and gave him a rather annoyed look. "Are you serious?!"

"They could be fake or dyed," John suggested.

Sherlock turned to John, "They're not," and then turned back to Elizabeth. "Yes. Quite. Now move."

"I still think they're nice," John murmured to a discouraged Mary.

"My God," Elizabeth exclaimed. "I just want to look outside for a few minutes. Would it really be so horrible if some random people saw me in your window?"

"If by you, you mean a girl, with a tendency to be mistaken for a minor, then yes. That would be disastrous."

John and Mary were no longer interested in picking a photographer as they were now caught up listening to their banter.

"But I'm just a client."

"So was the sex worker I supposedly solicited..."

Elizabeth scrunched her face.

"But will those key facts stop the press from running any sort of scandalous piece about the mysterious young girl in the window of 221b? I think not." Sherlock returned his attention back down to his work.

She stood still as she thought it over.

"In fact, I think they might include a nice photo of you, too," He added as he kept his head down. "Then, on the likelihood that your ex reads this kind of rubbish, he'll see your picture, and make a point of paying you a small visit. After that, I can reasonably expect the whole of London will be reading the front page story, from a much more reputable source, about how the hat detective discovered a dead girl in his flat."

Her mind was made up. She moved away from the window.

"Good girl."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John whispered, slowly shaking his head.

Sherlock popped his head up at John. "What?"

John leaned in, mouthing the word, "Tact."

"That was tactful."

"See?!" Elizabeth stepped closer, pointing accusingly at him. "You don't get it!" she laughed frustratingly. "That's _exactly_ why I don't want you talking to her."

John was confused. "Talk to who?"

"Well, you're just going to have to get over it, aren't you?"

Mary stood up. "Hey Elizabeth." She smiled warmly at her as she pushed her chair in. "Come to the kitchen with me. I'll show you some dress pictures."

Elizabeth rubbed her head and agreed. As Mary led her away towards the other room, John watched to see the doors slide closed. Once the two were gone, he turned back around to an unsuspecting Sherlock, visibly disappointed.

"Six days..."

"Thank her, for me, will you? That was beginning to get irritating."

"Six whole days..."

"Are you available tomorrow, John?"

John sighed.

"We need to question Rebecca Norton next. I think she may tie up some loose ends."

"Sherlock!"

John finally had his attention. He lowered his voice again.

"What the _hell_ is she still doing here?"

Sherlock matched his tone and temperament. "I'm working on it."

"You're working on the case."

Sherlock tightened his lips, prompting John to soften his tone. 

"Have you looked into any shelters?"

"Course."

"And?"

Sherlock turned away. "It didn't work last time."

John sighed dejectedly. "Well, then. You better get on it. God knows she can't continue staying here."

"Oh, believe me. If it were an option, she would be sitting in a box, outside, on the curb."

John closed his eyes at the ridiculousness of his statement. "What were you two even bickering about anyway? Who didn't she want you to talk to?"

Sherlock's silence was very telling.

"Rebecca Norton." The corner of his mouth turned up as he realized. "You know something, don't you?"

Sherlock briefly directed his eyes to John as he continued his research. "I made a small deduction."

"Uh huh..."

"And she did not appreciate it."

"What was that deduction?"

Sherlock swallowed before answering. "It seems Rebecca was one of the other girls he pursued after all."

John stared at him blankly before the meaning of his words finally sunk in. "Oh."

"Yeah," Sherlock said quickly.

"So instead, of course, keeping it yourself, you just upset her, again, with your insensitive conclusions."

"For God's sake..." Sherlock tipped his head up, seemingly in prayer. "That is not how it happened! All I did was mention I would need to visit her friend to question her about the case and maybe even take a peak at that damned letter when she, under no provocation, suddenly exploded in a fit of-Christ! Note!" He gritted his teeth as he swung his hand down in a chopping motion to emphasize his correction. "I mean note!"

With two swift motions, he then slammed his computer closed and pushed it to the other side of the desk. John watched with concern as Sherlock lowered his head into his hands, breathing out heavily.

"Are...you okay?"

"Why...is everyone calling this suicide note a letter?"

"Uh...sorry. I don't-"

"Mrs. Addison, the girl..." Sherlock reached for a medium sized note pad and tore from it, an unused page to hold up. " _Both_ upon hearing the word 'note', their faces become blank...as this sheet of paper..." He grabbed for a pen and stabbed it through the sheet. "...before a big dot manifests itself on to the page!"

John blinked.

"Ohh! The letter! You mean the letter!" Sherlock exclaimed in a mockingly pleasant voice.

"You are colorful today."

Sherlock slapped the mangled piece of paper down on the desk. "I think you'd find yourself the same, if you kept getting corrected by idiots."

"Corre-No." John shook his head. "They're the same thing!"

"No." Sherlock leaned in to John. "Not entirely. A note is just words scribbled on to a piece of paper or surface, left somewhere, to be found, like on a fridge or, in this case, in the trouser pocket of an angsty teenage boy. A letter, on the other hand, has structure, with an address and date at the top, meant to be mail-"

He stopped and leaned back in his chair. Slowly putting his hands together and pressing the sides to his lips, he grinned mischievously.

"Oh...that is rather interesting."

The doors to the kitchen opened, revealing Elizabeth with the puzzle book in her hand.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John, slightly amused, waved a hand in front of his face. "You mind telling-"

His grin became wider. "John..." He slowly turned his head toward him, only to drastically change his expression as he noticed Elizabeth standing in front of him. "Oh, what now?!"

John looked to his side and watched as she took her hand from behind her back and revealed the puzzle book to Sherlock. She extended the book to him with an apologetic look on her face, as if she was making a peace offering. John then turned to see Sherlock's response. He looked down at the book then back at her, before taking it to glance at the page opened for him. He was surprised.

"Huh..."

A smile creeped up on Elizabeth's face, consequently confusing John even more. He darted his eyes back and forth between them.

"Nope," Sherlock said simply before closing the book. "Try again."

Her face fell. She took the book and walked back in the direction of the kitchen, making a point to look back and glare. Sherlock didn't seem to notice this as he was in thought. He looked at John as if he was lost. 

"What was I saying?"

John didn't answer. He only stared as his mouth stayed open in case he could actually form the words to express his utter shock.

Knocking.

Faint and familiar knocking was heard from downstairs, turning everyone's attention to the staircase. Elizabeth had froze in place, just outside the entrance to the kitchen. Only her hand, carrying the puzzle book, had failed to stay still as it shook violently.

The knocking came once more. With realization hitting her, her book dropped to the floor as she covered her mouth.

"Hey. Whoa," John said, concerned. "What's wrong?"

Her hand continued to shake as she pointed toward the staircase. "He-he always...does that," she managed to say. "Habit of his."

"He?"

Sherlock looked to John and then back to Elizabeth. "Elizabeth. Go upstairs quietly, lock the door, and don't come out until I come get you myself."

Elizabeth turned around. "What? You're letting him in?!"

He got up and crossed the room, bending down to pick up the puzzle book by her feet. "Right now."

"No! Please don't!" She pleaded. "He's smart. He will-"

"And I'm smarter." Sherlock's eyes darkened as he took one step closer; his voice, stern yet soft. "Upstairs. Now."

Elizabeth, looking up at him, cautiously backed away before rushing upstairs. Once she was out of his sight, Sherlock positioned himself to face John, who had since left his seat to join him. 

"Are we sure it's him?" Mary asked, stopping next to John. 

Sherlock handed Mary the puzzle book, still focusing on John. "She seems to think so." He then held out his hand to him. "John, hand it over."

John didn't understand. "Hand what?"

Sherlock responded with an eye roll before unexpectedly reaching his hand behind John and lifting his coat tail.

"Hey! Whoa-What are you-"

He pulled his hand away, holding up a Sig Sauer P226R.

"John!" Mary exclaimed.

John looked away in shame, but there was no time for them to deal with that now. Quick footsteps from the staircase sounded out, taking their attention away from that comparatively small matter.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson called, poking her head in. "You have a client downstairs." She lowered her voice to a near whisper, giving the room a brief overview. "I think it might be that cruel young man. You know, the one we're-"

"Way ahead of you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said as he tucked the gun under his own jacket. "Please, send him up."

Mrs. Hudson hesitated before nodding. She looked as if she wanted to protest but thought it best not to as she quickly headed back down.

John looked back at Mary, regretfully, as he and Sherlock moved to sit in their respective chairs. "I'm-I'm sorry," he said weakly.

Mary ignored him. She walked to the kitchen to sit at the table without a single word.

"Great. Thank you for that," John said sarcastically to Sherlock. "You could've just let me keep it."

Sherlock shrugged. "Then I wouldn't have it."

Foot steps were heard, increasing in volume. Soon, a clean-cut man, dressed in khakis and a blue and white plaid shirt, emerged, carrying a hot pink laptop. Holding his free hand out as he approached the famous detective, he introduced himself with confidence.

"Mr. Holmes. The name is Henry. Henry Pinkerton. It's such an honor."

Sherlock didn't answer. He studied the hand offered to him, making note of the signet ring with a decorative 'P'. Something else caught his eye too, provoking him to stare up, hostilely, at it's owner.

The young man, named Pinkerton, awkwardly lowered his hand and took a step away. "Um...Thank you for uh...seeing me. I hope I'm not taking up too much of your time." He turned to John. "You must be Dr. Waston." Once again, he held out his hand. "It's brilliant to meet you!"

John paused before accepting his gesture. "Yes, hi." He cleared his throat. "Please. Take a seat." He referred to the one of the chairs at the desk.

Pinkerton grabbed a chair. "Just...one of these?" he asked, looking unsure.

"Uh, yes. That's fine." John pointed to a spot between Sherlock and himself. "Just right..."

Pinkerton carried the chair to the spot. "Right here?"

"That's fine," John answered awkwardly. "Wherever is...good."

Pinkerton sat down, setting the pink laptop on his lap. He looked around in awe, taking in all his surroundings. "Huh...So this is where it all happens."

John didn't know how to respond. "Yes, right, um...Pinkerton, is it?"

"That's right. You recognize the name, don't you?"

John nodded. "Vaguely, yes."

Pinkerton smirked. "Yeah. You're probably remembering my father, Ian." He turned to Sherlock. "I guess we can't all survive a jump from a multi-story building, am I right?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in time for Pinkerton to turn away.

John cleared his throat again. "Anyway. What's with the...computer you have there?"

Pinkerton glanced down. "Oh. It's mine."

John gave him an odd look.

"I'm kidding." He shook his head. "Sorry I...make stupid jokes when I'm stressed. No, this is my girlfriend-or...fiancé's, computer. Her name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Grant, although I just call her Liz..." He paused to chuckle to himself before he got serious again. "She's been missing for about a week now...I really need your help finding her."

"Well, what have the police said?"

Pinkerton shook his head. "They didn't say anything. I haven't reported it."

"How come?"

He shrugged. "I mean, unless you can send Scotland Yard across waters, I don't think they can be much help." He opened the laptop and turned it to face ahead. "She bought this the night she left."

The computer screen showed an airline website with a 'completed purchase' plane ticket to Boston, Massachusetts.

Sherlock leaned over to get a closer look. A minor surprised look showed up on his face.

"We had a huge fight that night and like the idiot that I am, I stormed out on her."

"Can you elaborate a little on that?"

Sherlock suddenly reached across for the laptop and shut it closed before taking it. Pinkerton was taken back.

"Uh..." He turned back to John trying to ignore it. "Well, she's not exactly..." He gestured to his head. "...all there, if you know what mean. It's been like that for her ever since her..."

He trailed off. He happened to catch a glimpse of Sherlock inspecting the computer, particularly him sniffing along the surface of the pink casing.

"...grandmother passed."

"Uh huh..." John was also distracted by Sherlock's behavior.

Sherlock then placed the computer on his own lap and opened it up. He used the mousepad to exit out of the web browser, only to reveal a curious desktop picture he had to examine further. It showed a picture of a younger Elizabeth, with light brown hair, smiling and embracing a familiar redheaded girl on a beach. After only a couple of seconds, he moved the cursor to hover over the 'my computer' icon.

"He's very thorough," John said, to break the silence. "Anyway, you were saying?"

"Uh...Well when her grandmother died, she left her house to Liz in the will. I didn't argue when she decided to move out because I figured it would help her...process her emotions but then she started behaving more erratically."

"How so?"

"Losing weight, paranoid thoughts, violent out bursts..." He rubbed the front of his left shoulder. "I don't think she's sleeping either."

John nodded along. He glanced at Sherlock, wondering when he was going to jump in. "Why do you think she would leave for America?"

"Boston is where her parents passed away. She lived there for a short time before I met her at Uni." Pinkerton bit his lip as he tried to continue. "I just got back actually. I looked for four days. None of her relatives or friends have seen her and I'm afraid she's gone and-" His lips pulled in as a tear streamed down his face. "...If I could find her, if I could find the right words she needs to hear, maybe I could convince her to come back home and get help. Then, I thought, maybe after she's well again, I could propose again. Take her to the gardens, like last time."

Sherlock looked up at him curiously, to which John took notice. 

Pinkerton wiped his face. "I'm sorry. I swore to myself I wasn't going to do this." He scoffed. "Grown man crying here, in middle of your living room." He hung his head slightly down in embarrassment.

John looked to Sherlock again. "Uh...No, that's perfectly normal. I'm sure you're-"

Pinkerton quickly picked his head up. "Would you mind terribly if I used your loo?"

John tilted his head slightly. "...Yeah," he started slowly. He turned and pointed behind him. "Just...down that hallway, to the left."

Pinkerton got up. "Thank you very much. I just need a moment to collect myself."

John gave him a strained smile. "Course."

As Pinkerton headed towards the toilet, Mary quickly turned away from watching them, consequently elbowing a pencil off of the table as she reached for her phone. He stopped to pick it up.

"Here you go," he said as he graciously handed her the pencil.

Mary gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

John watched them over his shoulder.

"Are you like a PA? Intern?

"Uh, no. I'm Dr. Watson's fiancé."

Pinkerton acted as if he was surprised and briefly looked back at John and Sherlock. "I guess I should've figured."

"I'm sorry?"

"The..." He pointed to the puzzle book sitting in front of her. "...book you have right there." He snorted and pointed to Sherlock. "That's sort of like him too, isn't it?"

Sherlock and John watched curiously as Mary stayed silent.

"Sorry," he said backing towards the hallway. "I'll leave you be."

Pinkerton disappeared down the hall and soon, a door was heard closing. Mary used that opportunity to quietly get up and move to the other room. She bent down next to Sherlock's seat.

"Is there anything in there of hers? Anything he would recognize?" she whispered.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "There is one thing he might notice."

"There's also us," John added. "We were at the coffee shop with him. He might have recognized us."

"No. His eyes were fixed on her the whole time. He never even looked in our direction."

"How sure are you?" Mary asked.

"...Eighty-seven percent."

John leaned in closer. "Well either way, I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I'm about ready to kick his teeth in.

"All the more reason to not carry a loaded gun with you," Mary muttered.

John groaned. "Mary. Please. Not now."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to Sherlock. "He is right though. This is getting dangerous."

"Which is why we can't rush this." Sherlock casually shut the laptop and placed his hands against his mouth.

A flush was heard. Mary quickly moved back to the table and John and Sherlock leaned back in their chairs. After a few seconds, Pinkerton walked out.

"Mr. Holmes. You have a little lady staying here."

Sherlock directed his eyes to Pinkerton, unflinching.

Pinkerton sat down and pointed in the direction of the bathroom. "Unless, of course, that's _your_ pink towel hanging in the shower."

"...Fuchsia."

He chuckled. "Okay. Mr. Holmes. I won't pry." He held up his hands, playfully, in defense and reached into his trouser pocket for his phone.

While Pinkerton was occupied, Sherlock and John exchanged looks. Reaching into his pocket for his own phone, John acted as if he was about to use it and gave Sherlock another look. Sherlock responded with a subtle nod.

"Here. I think you'll appreciate this, since you'll need to see pictures of her anyway." Pinkerton stretched his arm and offered his phone to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it and upon looking at the screen, his eyes slightly widen.

Pinkerton smiled. "Cute, isn't she?"

He gave a glare more intense than the last. 

"No, no..." Pinkerton laughed as he waved his hands. "I swear, she's legal. She just has one of those faces."

Sherlock silently offered the phone back to him, but Pinkerton refused it.

"Hold on. There's more. Just...swipe through." He motioned with his finger.

Sherlock looked suspiciously at him before complying. A couple seconds at a time, he swiped the screen, darting his eyes in various directions.

John watched curiously as Sherlock studied these images. As his eyes happened to travel up, Sherlock caught John's gaze. John simply gave him a questioning look to which he ignored as he continued to look through the pictures. After another swipe of the finger, Sherlock stopped and stared. He slowly tilted his head at the phone, bemusing Pinkerton in the process.

"Here." Pinkerton reached for the phone, "Turn it..." and turned it horizontally. "...this way.

John's curiosity grew even more as Pinkerton got up from his seat and stood next to Sherlock.

"That one's my favorite," He said, pointing at the screen. "There isn't a single thing I would change-Well...except maybe that scar. I've offered to pay to get it removed but..." He shrugged. "I guess she likes it. I don't know. But she looks a bit different now. She recently colored her hair blonde and now she leaves it natural. Kind of has a Goldie Locks thing going on."

Sherlock was annoyed to say the least. Once again he tried to hand back the phone.

"Wait a minute. Let's not leave Dr. Watson out."

Mary, still watching, leaned back in her chair to see better.

Sherlock hesitantly handed the phone over to John, giving him an awkward look. John took the phone, unsure of what was going on. He looked at the screen and then immediately looked away.

"Oh!" He flipped the device face down on his knee. "Okay. No. I'm not looking at these." He offered the phone back to Pinkerton.

Pinkerton smirked. "Come on. You need to see what she looks like."

"And I need to see _this_ to see that?" John asked angrily. "I don't understand. Do you suspect she joined a...colony of sort?"

He laughed. "No, no. She's a dancer. Didn't I tell you?"

John was not convinced. "...A dancer?"

"Yeah, like the song. She's a private one too, if your ever interested."

"Yeah, no. I got it." John shoved the phone towards him. "Still not looking at them."

Pinkerton scoffed and snatched his phone back. "What kind of man are you? They're the same ones on her website. She won't care."

John huffed and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. "My fiancé...is sitting over there in the other room. Have you no shame?"

Pinkerton's eyes widen. Tipping his head down as he rubbed the back of his neck, he quickly changed his tune.

"I'm...I'm sorry. Forgive me, I..." He reached into his pocket, "I get so proud when it comes to her, I didn't even..." and pulled out a pen and cheque book, clearing his throat awkwardly before continuing. "I realize that I'm asking a lot of you so I want to make sure you that you know you will be properly reimbursed for your services."

Pinkerton used his knee to write out a cheque to 'Dr. John Watson' as John, himself, kept a firm demeanor.

"Here." He handed him the cheque. "That should cover all travel expenses plus a little extra. After you find her, I'm willing to negotiate a more...generous offer."

John gave him another tight smile before looking at the cheque. He swallowed.

"A hundred and fifty..." John couldn't finish. He stared at it for a moment, then, pinching the top middle of the cheque, ripped it in half.

Pinkerton's furrowed his eyebrows as John preceded to tear up the cheque in small pieces. Sherlock couldn't help but smile to himself.

"We aren't interested," John stated.

"You 'aren't interested'?" Pinkerton repeated. "Helping me save my mentally ill girlfriend is not interesting enough for you?"

"Yeah, I'm not so sure that's what's going on here."

"Isn't that for him to decide?" He bent his head towards his right.

John shook his head. "Mm, no. That's both of us."

Pinkerton nodded along. "Huh. I think I see what's going on here." He gestured to him and Sherlock.

"Oh, do you?"

"Oh yeah. Plain as day. It's as good as any day when Daddy finally lets you take the wheel."

John laughed begrudgingly.

"In fact, it's a great day for you," Pinkerton said, smirking. "He's even letting you lead the client interview as well."

"Did you get into a fight recently?"

Both men turned their attention to Sherlock. He sat calmly, with both arms rested on either side of the chair, legs crossed, and eyes fixed, sorely, on Pinkerton.

"No..." He stammered. "Wh-Where'd you get that idea?"

Sherlock pointed to his right hand, "You're knuckles, they're..." and made a hissing sound. "...worn out."

Pinkerton stared for second before scoffing. He held out the hand in question. "Are you seeing things? My hand is perfectly intact."

"Oh, yes. I can see that."

"...Okay then..." Unsure, he cautiously turned back to John, wincing. "I'm sorry, again. Okay? We clearly got off on the wrong-"

"I can also see faint signs of bruises and tiny abrasions healing all along of length of your fist and one knuckle, in particular, healing from a fracture. Do you have a conclusion to sum up my analysis?"

Pinkerton struggled for an answer. "I box occasionally."

"With your signet ring on?"

"...My ring?"

"You didn't take it off before pummeling away at whatever or _whomever_ upset you, hence the fracture on your ring finger. That ring of yours can do quite a number on both ends if you apply enough force."

"Uh..." Pinkerton let out a deep breath. "Okay, after I left Liz's, I ended up at this skanky pub and I got into it with a drunk and punched his lights out." He rubbed his face. "That's all. This whole situation has gotten me so stressed I-"

"-had beaten her senseless, leaving her hospitalized for a week?" Sherlock finished for him. "Wait. That's not right. That was the time before. Was it not?"

Pinkerton got louder. "Where are you getting this rubbish? I've never hit her. I love her."

Sherlock pulled out his phone. "'Deceased Investor's Son Beats Ex'. This story was released back in October. You probably thought I wouldn't know about this considering I was still dead but of course I wasn't actually dead, and I certainly wasn't idle. Just like any ordinary person who wasn't faking their death, I had access the news media like everyone else."

"I was defending myself!"

"Hmm, which time?"

"You've got it all wrong. She-"

"-was smart to run away from you and to America, no less. Good luck finding her there. Massive country. Dr. Watson. Please escort Mr. Pinkerton out."

John got up. "With pleasure."

"Wait." Pinkerton stood up, holding his hand out at John. "Mr. Holmes! The papers! They twisted my story. They twisted yours too. You have first hand experience of what happens when the public takes what they read at face value. Please don't make the same mistake."

Sherlock looked at him intently, seemingly in consideration of the idea posed to him. Before long, he placed the computer beside his chair and stood up. "You're right."

John whipped his head towards Sherlock.

"Taking any story at face value is foolish, in the least, but acting upon it without the full set of information...that could produce tragic, irreversible consequences."

Pinkerton started grinning. "Yeah. You see it now, don't you?"

"As plain as day."

His face fell.

"Get out of my sight," Sherlock said, speaking with contempt.

"But if you would just listen-"

"No. That's your cue. Let's go," John said, trying to grab his shoulders.

Pinkerton moved away from John, to Sherlock, and yelled, "Just look!"

Clutching his shirt collar, with both hands, he pulled the buttoned fabric apart to reveal a thick, red line across his throat. Sherlock and John's eyes widen.

"Please..." He pleaded, breathing heavily. "Help me help her."

Sherlock stared at him. He seemed to be moved by the display, that is, until he started chuckling.

Pinkerton narrowed his eyes. "What is so God damn funny?!"

"That...was rather good. I must say..."

"What?"

"Saved it for the very end. Anyone else would have buckled to your tale of woe by now, but you know exactly who you're dealing with, don't you? A man of danger..."

"Mr. Holmes. It's real!"

"I know." Sherlock leaned his face in close, speaking to him just a couple of inches away. "And if it were me, I would have followed through."

The young man was scared but he stood his ground.

"Now don't make me repeat myself."

Pinkerton's expression changed. He made one bold step closer. "You think you're intimidating me, Mr. Holmes?"

A faint sound of a door closing from downstairs was heard. Sherlock briefly diverted his eyes.

"No..." Sherlock said in a near whisper. "I think you're too late."

"...What?"

Sherlock turned away, with his hands behind his back. "I gave you your chance, Mr. Pinkerton. Now, I'm afraid, you'll have to be removed from the premise in a less than voluntary fashion." He sat back down, crossing his legs.

Footsteps, followed by knocks were heard. Detective Inspector Lestrade entered the room.

"Sherlock. I came as soon as I could. Is everything okay here?"

"Better than okay, Detective Inspector," Sherlock answered. "I've caught you a repeat offender. Mr. Pinkerton here, has asked of our services to track down his ex-girlfriend; a direct violation of the restraining order she had placed against him in the previous year." He opened up the pink laptop he now had back in his lap.

"What is this?! Some kind of sting?!" Pinkerton's asked, angrily.

"Nope. I'm just an arsehole and you're a moron."

Sherlock turned the laptop to face everyone, revealing the restraining order in PDF form.

"It's pretty self-explanatory." Sherlock handed the computer to Lestrade.

Pinkerton stood there, shocked, as Lestrade read through the sections. He looked back at John, who held up his phone, silently gloating at him.

Lestrade closed the computer and placed it under his arm. "I have to get my cuffs from the car."

"No worries. Just use mine." Sherlock reached behind his chair and tossed him a pair of standard police hand cuffs. "Catch!"

Lestrade caught them and approached Pinkerton, who willingly put his hands behind his back. "These are mine by the way."

"This is ridiculous. I've done nothing wrong."

"Just return them, whenever."

"Yeah, we'll see," Lestrade muttered as he took Pinkerton with him to the staircase.

Pinkerton looked back at Sherlock, shaking his head as he gave him a glare, Death himself would cower under.

"Bad move, Mr. Holmes."

 "Ta ta!" Sherlock waved with his fingers.

They were gone. The remaining three waited until they heard the front door close, before moving. Sherlock went to the window. He watched as Lestrade placed Pinkerton in his car and drove away.

"They're gone." Sherlock moved to join John and Mary.

"That was too close," Mary commented.

"Agreed." Sherlock looked back at the window. "Although I think it's safe to say he is ignorant of our whole arrangement."

"I'd hardly call it safe. He did theoretically chase a girl overseas," John said.

"Safer than if she hadn't purchased the plane ticket. Because of that, he was left with no other suggestion to her location other than the one presented to him."

"Yeah, thank God she had the sense to leave the country when her crazy ex shows up at work."

"That's one explanation," Sherlock said, grinning.

Mary looked back at John. "Well what's the other?"

His grin widen. "Shall we find out?"

He left them to head up the stairs. Mary exchanged looks with John once more before following after him.

"Wait. Sherlock."

John stayed and listened. A knock was heard followed by voices.

"Leave her, Sherlock."

John sighed and paced around the room, still coming down from the excitement of earlier. Mary and Sherlock came back down.

"Change of plans," Sherlock said, approaching John. "We're seeing Lestrade tomorrow and obtaining the Addison case files."

"Uh..." John folded his arms. "When did I say I was going anywhere with you tomorrow?"

"You didn't. I asked you earlier if you were available tomorrow to which you gave no reply so I took that as a yes."

"I can't. I already made plans." He glanced at Mary.

"Uh, no. He's free. Don't worry," Mary assured him.

"Oh, come on. Don't do this now." John turned back to Sherlock. "Look. Let's just go over there now, okay? We should probably wrap up this case anyway."

"Mmm, better not. He's in the middle of an important case. I suspect we'll have better luck convincing him tomorrow." Sherlock turned to Mary. "Mary, may I borrow John for a couple of hours?"

"Do I get no say in this?"

Mary continued to ignore his plea. "He's all yours."

"Excellent. Then I shall bid you both farewell until tomorrow. John, I'll text you."

John held his hands up. "Hang on. We're leaving now? Don't we still have more to do with the wedding?"

"I think you two have rather more important things to discuss." Sherlock leaned into John's ear, whispering, "I suggest you just get this over with."

John looked over at Mary who looked pointedly at him with her arms crossed. He sighed. This was not going to go well for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for such a late update. I've been pretty sick. I'm going to go ahead a say I'll be updating two or three times month just to be on the safe side. Thank you for all the kudos, bookmarks, and reviews!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Another chapter! Thank you for sticking with me!

Mary had the table set all nice and proper for dinner. After placing the salad bowl in the center, she left the kitchen and stopped at the foot of the stairs to call for her fiancé.

"John! Dinner's ready!"

John came down the stairs, gripping tighter than usual on the rails. Once appearing in the kitchen he stopped in place to see Mary, patiently waiting for him to sit down. Warily, he took the seat besides her.

"Well, this looks lovely." He pulled his chair in. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

Mary shook her head as she cut off a piece of chicken breast. "No, no. My pleasure."

John took a bite. "Mm-My God." He rolled his eyes back, a bit too enthusiastically. "This chicken is outstanding." Then he stuffed a scoop of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Mary rolled her eyes.

"Gosh, I don't think I ever had..." He paused to chew. "A meal more amazing." He flashed her a big, closed-mouth smile, before resuming.

She stared at him, resting her chin on her knuckles. "It's tempting, letting you carry on like that."

"I could keep going if you'd like. I've got more."

"No, I rather think it's about time, wouldn't you agree?"

John groaned. He had successfully avoided this conversation since they got back from Baker St.

"All I'm saying is you couldn't have at least told me first?"

John kept his head down. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"I mean, I guess I should have known. Wedding planning can be quite dangerous these days."

"Now-" He set his fork down. "Hold on for a sec. This wasn't about wedding planning. You were the one who wanted to pop in on him."

Mary shrugged. "Course. I wanted to see if she was still there. Don't try to change the subject!"

"I don't know!" John said louder. "I...I think I just grabbed it."

Mary huffed.

"Really." He reached for her arm. "Honest to God. I didn't plan on bringing it. It was just a..."

"Impulse?" Mary offered.

John closed his eyes as he nodded. "Yes."

After a short while Mary seemed to accept his answer. She turned back to her food, pushing it around with her fork. "Well I suppose it was the right call, considering." She added, "It got pretty intense near the end there."

"Well, I don't think we'll have to worry about him anymore."

Mary shook her head. "No, no. I'm more talking about Sherlock. He can be a bit frightening, that man."

"Yeah, he does that sometimes," John muttered.

"Mm-hm." She added, before continuing to eat, "He does it for the people he's attached to."

John sighed. "We've been through this. He's just distracted."

"I agree. He's distracted." She took a sip of her water.

"With the case," John finished for her.

Mary put down her glass. "This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. Shouldn't he have solved it by now?"

John shrugged. "I mean, not...necessarily."

"It's been six days, John."

"It's a cold case. Those are harder." John shook his head. "Trust me. He just needs help finding something suitable. That's all."

Mary gave that some thought. "We're...pretty suitable. Aren't we?"

John saw where she was going. "Uh huh."

"And we have an extra room, we hardly ever use."

John nodded along. "We do."

"Let's see...what he says when you offer to take her in. If you're right, then, at least, she will have a safe place to stay for a while, and Sherlock can finish up the investigation."

John thought it over. "Yeah, alright. I'll bring it up tomorrow when we pick up the case files." He returned to eating.

"Is it really that easy? Just...picking up classified documents like that."

"Mm. Should be." He pierced a carrot slice with his fork. "Greg is pretty cooperative with that sort of thing. I don't think it'll be a problem."

\--

"No!"

It was the next morning, at the police department. Lestrade sat in his office, practically fuming over the request Sherlock and John made concerning what was suppose to be a shut case from several years ago. Sherlock resorted to matching that temperament with the same air of defiance. He slammed his hand down on desk.

"Oh come on!"

"No and no! Or did you forget how you humiliated me in front of my superiors?"

Sherlock paused, to recall. "I'm a little fuzzy on the details."

"You waltzed in here, high as a kite..."

John tipped his head up. "Oh my God. That explains so much..."

"Spouting off nonsense about how...teenagers don't go to boring events when there's...parties and there was something about evil eyes-I don't remember it all. Mostly the chief's splitting voice seared itself in my skull that day."

"Christ." Rapidly, he spoke the next part. "I said there was no way an avid partygoer would suddenly show up to something as tame and uneventful as a charity ball on a weekend night. Sensitivity to sunlight during the interview, hoarse vocal chords, and three different beer stains, he tried but failed to wash out, each from different weekends, on the front of his shirt that he wore the previous night, as evidenced by the wrinkle patterns along the waist; the very night in question he established his alibi for, on the news, on the day of his roommate's memorial service, never breaking eye contact with so much as a single blink."

Lestrade stared up at him in confusion, as if he had just realized something new.

"What happened to your face?"

The small but noticeable scratch on the right side of Sherlock's cheek twitched as he sent the inspector an exasperated look.

"Never mind my face, _George_!" Sherlock snapped.

"Seriously?!"

John chimed in. "That's not even close!"

Sherlock spun away from them. "Alright! Alright!" He paced to calm his nerves. After a moment, he returned to the desk. "We have new information."

Lestrade nodded. "Okay. Spit it out then."

John and Sherlock looked to each other briefly, having their silent conversation. Sherlock turned back to Lestrade.

"We can't."

John turned to Sherlock. "What?"

"Not yet."

"You're not really good at this, are you?"

Lestrade looked at them suspiciously. "You do know, if you have evidence a murder was committed, you can't keep that from the police."

"It's not evidence," Sherlock reassured. "So far it's just a lead, but with those case files, I am certain I can find a connection to Henry Pinkerton."

"Sherlock..." Lestrade moaned.

"I'm right about this. You know I am!"

Lestrade let his face fall into his hands as he groaned wildly.

The office door opened. A brown haired, plain clothed man, no older than thirty, popped his head in.

"Excuse me for interrupting, Inspector. I've got that list of calls you wanted."

Lestrade looked up at the man like he was a God send. "Fantastic! Best news I've heard all day. Send it to me in an email, would you?"

"Aye aye." The man nearly closed the door before noticing Sherlock and John. "Whoa. Are they who I think they are?" He asked Lestrade, pointing to the duo.

"The one and only," Lestrade responded flatly. "This is Detective Constable Peyton. Our newest member."

Detective Payton eagerly stepped in to shake their hands.

"Hi. Pleasure," John said, nodding politely.

"Please. The pleasure is mine. I'm such a huge fan. My favorite one on your blog was that one about the play. Brilliant stuff there."

"The play? Are you talking about 'The Aluminum Crutch'?"

"Yeah. Amazing anyone could figure that out. I mean, what are the chances? Someone must have said the forbidden word."

"Forbidden what now?"

Sherlock answered, "He's talking about the old superstition surrounding Shakespeare's 'Macbeth'. If one speaks the name of the play in a theatrical setting, the environment is considered cursed and is in need of cleansing. Complete and utter nonsense, of course."

Detective Peyton became bashful. "Right. I agree. I was just joking, obviously. Complete-"

"Constable? The email?" Lestrade reminded.

"Right. Right, boss. The detective started walking out. "On it. With any hope, we'll get 'em next time 'round'."

Sherlock looked at him, curiously.

"Nice meeting you two." With that, the detective waved 'goodbye' and closed the door behind him.

"Listen," Lestrade started. "I've got a lot on my plate right now so if you could..." He pointed to the door, leaving it at that.

"Certainly." Sherlock smiled. "Right after we get those case files."

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned.

"John."

John turned towards Sherlock, confused. "Wh-...What am I suppose to do here?

"I don't know," Sherlock said discreetly. "Whatever. Do your look."

"...My look? What look?"

Sherlock left his mouth slightly agape. "I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No, I've seen it before."

John stepped back in order to address both of them. "What are you two going on about?"

Sherlock and Lestrade stayed silent, both avoiding eye contact with him.

John scoffed. "Come on. I don't have...a _look_."

"Just a tad."

" _You_..." John had a finger in Sherlock's face. "You can shut up." John swiveled back to Lestrade. "Look-" John paused to mentally curse himself for his choice of word. "With all due respect, Detective Inspector, despite your opinion on this kid's involvement in that boy's death, I think, at this point, it is quite clear that he was more than capable. Now, if there is any chance Sherlock's suspicions are correct, which, speaking from both of our experiences, they usually are, then probably the best course of action is to solve this case as soon as possible less this poor girl should ever turn up on _your_ desk again."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment before breathing out. He pulled open a drawer.

Sherlock leaned in to John, whispering, "Good job."

"Don't."

Lestrade pulled out a set of keys. "How long do you need them for?"

"That depends," Sherlock answered. "When is Pinkerton set to post bail?"

Lestrade winced and Sherlock's face fell.

"He's already out."

"He never stays locked up with us for long. Once his lawyer shows up, he pays a small fee and is on his merry way."

"How is that possible?" John asked accusingly.

Lestrade held his hands up. "I don't know, but it's out of my hands, alright?" Lestrade slid the set of keys across the desk. "You have until Monday, okay? Is that enough time for you two?"

Sherlock snatched up the keys and smiled confidently. "Oh, more than enough, Detective Inspector."

Sherlock, followed by John, began to exit the room.

"Wait just a minute."

They stopped.

Lestrade looked at them sternly. "You pull the case files on Timothy Addison and _only_ on Timothy Addison. Do I make myself clear?"

Sherlock nodded. "Perfectly."

\--

"So does everyone see it but me?"

Sherlock and John walked together down a long hallway.

"Mary mentioned something similar the other day but I thought she was just being patronizing."

"We should head back to my place. Look through these files. See if there's anything we're missing."

John checked his watch. "I have a couple of hours, but I'll need to leave in time catch a movie with Mary."

"Sounds dull."

"Most normal things are to you."

John glanced at him as they neared the corner. His eyes landed on the tall stack of files in his arms.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You took more than just the Addison files didn't you?"

Sherlock looked back at him and shrugged.

"He's going to have your head for that. You know that right?"

Just then, a woman came from around the corner and collided with John, dropping the files she had clutched in her arms. Sherlock continued down the hall as if nothing had happened.

"Oh my!" John knelt down to collect the scattered papers. "I am so sor-"

He saw who it was and silently groaned. Of course, it was none other than Sally Donovan.

"Dr. Watson." She smiled. "It's been a minute."

"Yes. Yes it has." He handed her the papers and turned to leave.

"Is it nice?"

John reluctantly turned back. "Is what nice?"

She gestured to the hall corner.

"Oh, that. Well..."

Donovan smirked. "Being abandoned like that again?"

"This again?"

"No, it's okay. Some people like it."

"Do they now?" John scoffed. "How interesting. Excuse me, please."

John almost made it around the corner, if only Sherlock hadn't gotten in his way.

"John. What is the hold-" A look of sheer disappointment showed up on his face as Donovan's smirk grew wider.

"Of course."

"So what brings you two here?" She asked, folding her arms.

"What else? We're investigating a murder."

"Uh huh," Donovan pressed. "Which one?" She gestured to the files he carried.

"A cold one," Sherlock said simply. "Or, in other words, none of your business."

Donovan cocked her head. "Funny. Is that what you said before she gave you that number on your cheek there?"

"Nothing of the sort. She didn't like my gift."

"Sorry?" John cut in. "What are you two-"

"Didn't Mary tell you, John?" Sherlock lead. "We ran into Sally when we were shopping together, for my girlfriend's birthday gift. Correction. _Ex_ -girlfriend's birthday gift."

It took a second. "Oh! Right." John nodded to Donovan. "Yeah. Terrible. Dodged a bullet on that one."

"Shall we go?"

Sherlock stormed away, pulling John by his bicep. He struggled to keep up with Sherlock's strides.

"O-...kay. Right behind you."

Donovan peeked down the hallway, eyeing them suspiciously.

\--

Sherlock burst out through the doors of New Scotland Yard Headquarters with John, much to his chagrin, still in tow.

"Yeah. Okay," John said as Sherlock pulled him along. "Okay! I get it!" He yanked his arm away and stopped in the middle of the pavement. "You wanted out of there."

Sherlock continued on, only stopping once he spotted a cab. "Taxi!" He called, waving his hand in the air.

John caught up next to him. "All the way through the damn building. Is everything okay?"

The cab pulled up and they stepped in.

"Mary can pick you up, right?"

"Uh...sure."

"Where to?" The driver asked.

"221b Baker St.," Sherlock answered.

John pulled out his phone and started texting. Afterwards, he put his phone back in his pocket and turned to Sherlock who was looking out the window, seemingly in deep thought.

"So..." John began. "You...going tell me how you got that?" He pointed to his own face. "That mark there."

Sherlock glanced at John before speaking. "I was wrong. She's ambidextrous."

"Oh jeez..."

"Evidently, he wasn't lying about the violent outbursts."

"What happened?"

Sherlock didn't answer right way. "I startled her. It was a misunderstanding."

John nodded, although he didn't accept his answer fully. He prepared himself to press the issue. "Listen, Sherlock. Don't take this the wrong way but..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I think you've might have taken on more than your usual work load and-"

"John." Sherlock whipped his head towards him. "I appreciate your concern but it's far from necessary. This case is hardly the most difficult and I'm fairly confident we will-"

"Yes. Yes. I know." John assured. "Believe me. I have no doubts about that but...it's the sensitive side of this that I'm more concerned about and I think you would have a better time with this investigation if you didn't have a certain..." He trailed off, hoping Sherlock would understand him.

He did not.

"Distraction," John finished.

He still didn't quite understand. "Distraction?"

John cleared his throat. "Yes. So...Mary and I want to help you with that. We have an extra room and we'd be willing to take her in for a while. That should free you up to solve this case with little trouble, yes?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"It'd...be good...for the both of you. Don't you think?"

After a moment, Sherlock faced forward. "Sure..."

John smiled a little. "Alright then. So you'll-"

"I'll talk to her tonight," Sherlock assured firmly.

John stared at him. "Yeah, okay." He leaned back and sighed before muttering to himself. "Sounds good."

They rode the rest of the cab ride in silence.

\--

It was late. Sherlock sat in his kitchen, sleeves rolled up, with several files, papers, and photographs spread out before him in no organized manner. He placed a document down with the rest of them and sighed, aggravatingly running his hands through his hair.

As he continued to work, Elizabeth came in, almost not noticing him. She stopped abruptly, perhaps a little embarrassed to be seen wearing flannel pajamas with her unruly hair down. After determining he wasn't going to turn around, she stepped carefully over to the cupboards to fill a glass with water. She tried to sneak past him unnoticed but Sherlock turned around, stopping her just short of the stairway entrance.

He stared without a word, causing Elizabeth to stutter.

"I-I was just..." She pointed to her glass.

"Why did you get a hysterectomy?"

Her jaw dropped. And so did her glass as she lost her grip. Bits of shards and water scattered all over the floors as she covered her face.

"He showed you those pictures, didn't he?!" Her broken voice was muffled behind her hands. She tried not to cry.

Instead of answering, Sherlock turned away, trying to ignore the fact that he, once again, upset her with his line of questioning.

She uncovered her face, mildly surprised to see the mess.

"Oh gosh..." she said softly. "I did this."

She bent down to collect the shards. The sound of the glass scraping against the floor alerted Sherlock.

"No, don't." He held out his hand at her. "Just leave it."

"But I made a mess."

"It's fine. Mrs. Hudson will take care of it."

She straightened up. "What?"

"Listen."

Elizabeth did as he said and heard the faint footsteps from downstairs. They got louder and louder. Soon, a voice followed after.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called out. "What was that ruckus? I heard a crash." She appeared from the first set of stairs and saw Elizabeth. "Oh my! What happened here?"

"I'm, I'm sor-"

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson peeked into the kitchen. "There's glass all over the place! Did you throw something at her?!"

Sherlock was faced away again. "Not at her. Just in her direction."

Elizabeth looked at him, astonished.

"You could have hurt someone!" Mrs. Hudson scolded.

"I didn't see her standing there."

She sighed. "Do try to be more careful when you're having your temper tantrums." She bent down to pick up a couple of large pieces. "Dearie. You're barefoot."

Elizabeth saw Sherlock looking back. He gave her a quick wink causing her to look away.

Mrs. Hudson stood back up. "You stay right here. Don't move an inch while I get a broom." She left, mumbling, "Honestly...a grown man, scratching up my floor..."

Sherlock continued his work as Elizabeth stood surrounded by water and glass shards.

"I'll pay for that," She finally said.

"The glass or the floor?"

"Um...Both."

She watched him for a moment, hoping he would say something else. But he didn't.

"That was an awfully personal question to ask me out of the blue like that."

He picked his head up. "Questions like that are necessary in a case like this, wouldn't you agree?"

She shook her head. "No. That has nothing to do with this. Any of this so-"

"-don't inquire any further. Understood."

They were quiet again, just as Sherlock preferred. Elizabeth, however, seemed a little bored. She stood, in the small space provided, on the tip of her toes, to see what he was doing. Nothing. Not without stepping closer. She crossed her arms in slight disappointment and peered down the staircase.

"How long does it take to get a bloody broom?" she muttered under her breath.

"I believe Mrs. Hudson's bad hip takes precedence over your current discomfort at the moment."

"Oh wow," She bowed her head, in shame. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I said that out loud...How rude of me."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He wasn't going to get any progress with her standing there.

"It's been seven days, hasn't it?"

"Seven days?"

Sherlock got up and walked to the bedroom. "The headaches, irritability, sweating..."

Elizabeth touched her face and checked her fingers.

"I'm well aware it's not the only factor in your behavior," he said from down the hall. "But it's certainly not doing you any favors, adding nicotine withdrawal on top of..." He reappeared in front of her, now wearing his jacket. "Everything else."

Sherlock moved to the living room and stopped at his desk.

"I need some air anyway." He grabbed his keys and checked inside his wallet. "I'll pick some up while I'm out." He paused, recalling something. "You haven't eaten either. Not since lunch, yesterday."

A small voice answered, "No, I haven't."

He picked up a familiar white envelope and pulled several banknotes from it before heading to the staircase. "Chinese okay?"

She gave him a timid nod when he stopped in front of her. It was dark. The tiny shards of glass snapped underneath him as he stood, towering over her.

"This should cover it all," Sherlock said, counting out the notes. "Floor, food, cigarettes, and cab fair, if you don't mind. Due to a regretful arrangement I made in the past, I'm afraid I'll have to go further out to get your pack."

"Sure...that's fine."

He put the money in his pocket. "Excellent. In exchange, I want you to stay up a little longer and answer a few questions for me. There are still quite a few details I'm not clear on."

Elizabeth spoke softly. "Okay."

Sherlock walked away, crushing more glass with each step. "And do try not to break anything else while I'm gone. Mrs. Hudson has recently taken it upon herself to itemize the damages I've wreak on this place. I'd like to keep that list short."

Elizabeth watched as he disappeared down the stairs.

\--

They sat in the kitchen. Elizabeth ate quietly, at the short end of the table while Sherlock continued to skim through some documents. She took the last bite of her fried rice before placing the empty takeout boxes next to some science equipment that had been moved out of the way for some decent work space.

"Done?" Sherlock turned himself sideways in his chair.

Elizabeth nodded as she finished chewing. He reached over to the other side of the table and grabbed a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray, all stacked together.

"Here you go." Sherlock handed the items to her. "Go nuts."

"Thanks."

She set the ceramic tray down and hit the pack against her palm a few times. As she placed the fag in her mouth, she noticed Sherlock eyeing it.

"This won't bother you?" Elizabeth asked.

"Not at all."

"Okay." She held the lighter up to her mouth.

"But if you would, aim the smoke in my general direction. That would be most appreciated."

Elizabeth looked up at him, giving him an odd look, before doing as he asked. She picked up her chair and placed it on Sherlock's side, just a few feet from him. Sitting cross-legged, she reached behind to move the ashtray.

"Does this work?" She took a pull and breathed out in his direction.

The smoke reached him, but it wasn't enough.

"Actually, move closer."

A foot hooked under her chair and dragged her forward. She grabbed for the chair's arms, both due to the sudden movement and to the close proximity to him.

But Sherlock didn't seem to notice her discomfort. And once she came to realize he meant no harm, it quickly subsided.

"You were wrong, you know," Sherlock said, keeping his eyes on an open file.

"About what?" she asked, reaching, again, for the ash tray.

"You said your ex was smart, but he didn't even bother checking your computer files for any incriminating evidence against him. I'd hardly call that intelligent."

"No, he is. He just thinks everyone else is stupid."

Sherlock directed his eyes to her. "And you counted on that, didn't you? Bought a plane ticket and left the receipt open on your laptop for him to 'incidentally' discover."

Elizabeth groaned as she tipped her head back, mouthing a choice word.

"Now when _exactly_ were you planning to tell me you set a trap for your ex?"

"It wasn't like that," she moaned.

"Really? You came up with that idea rather quick. Perhaps you even had it in mind prior to the events."

She brought her head back down, furrowing her brows. "Oh my God! That's disgusting! I was prepared! I didn't-" She stopped herself. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her tone. "I had a plan, but it went wrong."

Sherlock dropped the file down on the table and leaned against his left elbow. "Then enlighten me."

Elizabeth glared at him defiantly as he waited. It didn't take long, though, for her to realize there was no use in this. She closed her eyes in defeat.

"Even if I wanted to go back to the States, I knew he'd find me eventually so...that left me with getting help here. But I couldn't come to you until I knew for sure he wasn't following me. I just...had to hold him somewhere long enough, and get away."

"So you plotted."

"I figured he would show up." She scoffed. "That look in his eye said enough."

"You said before, you locked him in?"

She took another pull. "Mm-hm."

"Bathroom doors don't normally have locks on the outside."

Elizabeth shrugged. "I...switched them...The doorknobs."

Sherlock nodded slightly, as if he was impressed. "And you took your wallet and passport with you to establish you were leaving the country."

"I did."

"And the slit across his throat?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Like I said before. It went wrong."

Sherlock decided let that part go for now. "You should have told me all this from the start."

"Why? So you could just accuse me of what you just accused me of? No, thank you. I got enough of that at my trial."

"That's what happens at trials. You'd be worse off if it was the defense that found out about this."

She started to protest but she stopped and thought better of it. Her face soften. "I just didn't want to go to prison."

Sherlock glanced at her as he reached for another file. "You're not going to prison." He added, almost inaudibly, "I'm not going to let that happen."

"...I'm sorry for lying."

Sherlock sighed. "That plan of yours, quite the elaborate scheme for someone such as yourself."

She almost laughed. Bitterly, she said, "Yeah...except it didn't exactly work like I hoped."

He nodded. "That happens sometimes."

She didn't expect that. Her pained expression faded as she looked back at him with gratitude. He became uncomfortable and cleared his throat.

"We'll have to record your statement again. All the details this time. No skipping anything of even minimal importance otherwise I can't help you when it comes time for you to appear in court. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Good." He pulled out a piece of paper from the file. "We'll save that for another day. Right now, I need you to take a look at this for me."

Elizabeth took the paper and skimmed it. "Oh my God. It's the letter."

"'Oh my God'," Sherlock mocked. "Yes. It's a copy. Have you noticed that's the third time you referred to it as such?"

"That's just what Rebecca called it."

"And why do you think that is?"

"I don't know."

"Dear Lord..." He rubbed his forehead. "Quit being lazy. If you're going to stay, you're going to do work. Tell me what you see."

"Stay?" Elizabeth repeated. "You said last night this wasn't working. That I should stay with Dr. Watson instead."

This was true and after some time thinking it over, he gave her his answer.

"I checked already. Dr. Watson and his fiancé don't have the room for you after all."

"...Oh."

"So...unless you'd like me to find you something else, it seems you are stuck here." He bent forward to tap the surface of the copy. "Now...what do you see here?"

Elizabeth slowly looked down at the copy before sighing heavily. "Henry's...a suspect, right? This isn't his handwriting though." She scanned every line, visibly getting upset.

He sighed. "Don't _read_ it. Just tell me what you _see_."

She wiped her eyes. "I mean, this was written to Rebecca..." Something caught her attention. She held the paper closer. "What's this line here?"

Sherlock gestured for her to keep looking.

She breathed out, "If this is a copy then this line...it's the bottom edge of the original." She paused. "That's...an odd length for a sheet of paper."

"Good. What can you conclude from that?"

Elizabeth held the copy up. "This isn't really a suicide note, is it?"

He took the page from her. "That is my working theory; however, I can only confirm it if I had a look at the original."

She became suspicious. "I already told you. I don't want you seeing her."

"I won't tell her."

"What?"

"You've kept it from her for this long to protect her, haven't you?"

She didn't answer.

"I understand your concern. It threatens the very peace of mind your friend has manage to accumulate after such an experience. However, I only want to discuss the circumstances of her boyfriend's death."

She mulled it over. "Will Dr. Watson be with you?"

"I had planned on it."

She pursed her lips. "You're best bet is to catch her on a Saturday. She's usually home most of the day with her whole family."

Sherlock reached for something that looked like a schedule, glancing at it before putting it away. "That should work. Anything else I should know?"

Elizabeth smirked. "You'll definitely have to watch out for the husband. You don't want him thinking you're makin' eyes at her."

He made a face. "I'll pass that message along to Dr. Watson."

"No. You too. That thing you do when you make your 'deductions', he won't know the difference. He'll throw you out if you're not careful."

"I take it this happens often."

She smiled she suggestively. "She's had a lot of admirers."

Sherlock gave her odd look. "I heard."

Pulling her legs up, Elizabeth held her knees tightly as she beamed. "It's not just her looks though. She's awfully charming and just over all a great person." She stared down at the floor as her cheeks blushed.

In that moment, Sherlock made another deduction. One he did not expect.

"Anything else?"

Elizabeth pulled in her lips, trying not to smile. "No."

Sherlock gave her a pointed look. "You're sure?"

She covered her creeping smile and shook her head. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Whatever she was keeping from him, it wasn't important.

"If you have nothing further to add, I suggest you should just head on to bed."

"Uh wait. How's your..." She pointed to her own left cheek. "...face doing?"

"It's fine. How's your hand?"

"Like I slapped the statue of David." She laughed a little.

"Hmm." He turned away. "Serves you right. Going in to my freezer after I explicitly told you not to."

She nodded in agreement. "So..." she began bashfully. "After all that, you're okay with me staying here?"

"Have I kicked you out yet?"

"No, but...I just don't want to be a bother, is all. You've already been so nice to me."

Sherlock looked up. "You think I'm nice to you?"

"Well...As nice as I am to you."

Sherlock stared back at her, a little confused. In response, she leaned closer. 

"Mr. Holmes. If you think you're mean, can you imagine the things Henry's said to me?"

"...Can't say that I can."

"Having lived with a psychopath, I developed a rather skewed perspective on how people should be treated."

"Is that your scholarly opinion or are you just making a personal observation?"

"Mm...Both."

"Hmm...And what do you make of me?"

She shrugged. "I dunno."

"That's not an answer."

"I mean..." She held her palms up. "Sure, I have my ideas but I don't really care. It doesn't matter...whatever it is."

"And it doesn't bother you?"

She smiled at him. "Why would it bother me?"

"It bothers most people."

Elizabeth flashed him a flirtatious grin, "Maybe...it's just what I need," and took a long pull from her cigarette. "Someone like you..."

She rounded her lips at him and blew out the smoke slowly, letting it split to either side of his face as he stared back, curiosity getting the best of him.

"On _my_ side."

She leaned back in her chair, and looked playfully at him as the corners of his mouth lifted, revealing the slightest hint that he was, indeed, intrigued.


	8. Chapter 8

  
"So it was never suppose to be a suicide note?"

John sat in the back of the cab with Sherlock as they were taken through an affluent suburb. He skimmed over the copy of the letter again, amazed at this new discovery.

"Exactly. Timothy wrote this with the intention of telling her he was leaving. His phrasing was just, unfortunately for him, vague and misleading."

"'I've done something unforgivable and hurtful to you, I know, but still I have prayed and prayed for your forgiveness, if for nothing else, to relieve the ache I feel as I write my final letter to you. You won't hear from me anymore.' Yeah..." Shaking his head, John handed Sherlock back the letter. "There's no way anyone would give that another thought."

"Not after snipping off the date, address, and the receiver's name."

"God, that's brilliant." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, spiral note pad and pen.

"What are you doing?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing, just...taking notes." John jotted down some words on the pad. "Keeping up."

Sherlock smiled to himself.

Holding the pad out, John looked over at what he had written. "This fits actually. Since Pinkerton was his flat mate, he could have easily nicked it off his desk."

Sherlock nodded, staring off. "Yes...My thoughts exactly..."

John waited to hear the rest, but he could see Sherlock was unsatisfied with something. He peered at his face. "But..."

"Timothy was bludgeoned near to death."  He paused. "That suggests passion, anger..."

"Mm-hm. Right. And _where_ exactly have we seen that passion and anger before?"

"Ah, but where's the motive?" Sherlock posed, wagging his finger at him. "According to Nathaniel Willis, Pinkerton was playing the field. If this was true up until the point he became infatuated with our client then what reason would he have to attack Timothy?" He clenched his teeth. "It doesn't make sense. There's _still_ something we're missing!"

"Yeah, okay..." John held a hand out to him. "I agree with you but I also think you're forgetting we are about to meet the woman in the center of all this, and who just so happens to be another victim of Pinkerton's 'passion'."

"No, I haven't forgotten..." he sighed. "...but I doubt we'll get any clarification on that matter. I don't imagine it'd be a good idea bringing it up, considering the harm it could pose, unearthing a past trauma, in the company of a probable ignorant spouse, no less."

John turned and stared. His straight face slowly contorted to a look of amusement as he stifled a chuckle. Sherlock, caught off guard, met his gaze.

"What?"

John shrugged innocently. "Nothing. Nothing. It's just...that's my line."

Sherlock's eyes rolled up as he looked away, which only served to entertain John further.

"No, it's good," he goaded. "It's finally starting to stick."

"Zip it."

The taxi pulled up to a white, two-story house complete with a flower garden and a full balcony. After John paid the driver, the two stepped out and stood on the curb.

"Surgeon's salary," John commented.

Sherlock nodded. They continued for the front door, through the iron archway.

"So...she's staying with you."

Sherlock didn't answer right away. "It would seem so."

"And you are just letting her stay...what, out of the goodness of your own heart?"

They walked up the few steps to the door.

"I'll admit. It makes my job a bit easier. An answer to a question is as simple to get as a knock on your door."

"Ah..." John accepted that answer at first but then the full meaning sunk in. " _My_ door?"

"Shh." Sherlock held up his hand.

A faint sound of a long, continuous piano trill, followed by a woman's operatic singing came from inside.

"O mio babbino caro, mi piace..."

They listened as the female expertly sang the Italian piece. It was admirable, but time was crucial. Sherlock took a step towards the door.

"Beautiful." He pressed the doorbell and stood back.

The singing stopped along with the accompaniment soon after. John then realize something.

"...Wait a minute," he said. "What is her last name again?"

Sherlock was about to answer when the door opened. A woman, with long, strawberry hair braided to one side stood before them. She wrapped her knee-length, floral dressing gown tightly around her, covering what she could of the striped sleep shorts and white tank top she wore underneath.

"Yes?" the woman answered, hurriedly tying the silk sash.

Sherlock placed both hands behind his back and bent forth a bit. "Good afternoon. Rebecca Norton, is it?"

She answered again. "Yes."

"So sorry to disturb you. My name is John Watson and this is-"

"Yes," she said excitedly. "Yes! I know who are!" She turned behind her and called out, "Shane! Shane, you loon! I was right! They're here!"

The woman stepped back as she beamed at the two men, kicking a stuffed, toy elephant out of their way.

"Please. Please come in. Uh...Sorry for the mess."

They entered as she ran ahead and collected more toys from the floor. Sherlock looked around the house, picking up clues only to stop at the blonde toddler sitting at the upright piano against the left wall.

"Would you two like a cuppa?" Rebecca called from the kitchen.

John waved his hand. "Oh, you don't have to go to any trouble."

"No. No trouble. Kettle's already on."

Sherlock took his attention from the toddler and directed it to the kitchen where a dark haired man, looking to be about thirty, entered from a back room. He groggily approached Rebecca as she checked on the tea.

"I'm not meant to get any sleep, am I?"

"Love, look."

Rebecca gently turned the man towards the living room, where Sherlock and John stood waiting. A look of shock show up on his face as Sherlock gave him a wave. He returned it, not quite believing his eyes.

John, in the meantime, walked up to the boy, watching as he pressed random keys on the piano.

"That was lovely playing I heard out there. Was that you on the piano?"

The boy shook his head exaggeratedly, swishing his whole body back and forth. John smiled.

"No? That wasn't you?"

He pointed to a silver tape recorder sitting on the rack above the keys.

"Oh...My mistake."

The boy gave him a big, toothy grin and giggled as he called him 'silly'. John laughed with him.

"Remember our deal?" Rebecca asked her husband, playfully tugging his arm. "I'm thinking...a movie date next Saturday. There's a flick about a dog, I've been wanting to see."

"Hmp." The husband turned his head and answered, "Maybe you'd prefer to see that with your friend."

With that, he coldly left her side to greet the two men in the living room.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." He said their names as if he could hardly believe it. "Still on the case then?

Sherlock tilted his head. "You were expecting us, Mr. Norton?"

"Shane," The husband corrected quickly. "And uh...no." He let out a short laugh, smiling rather aggressively. "No, I was not."

"I was," Rebecca called from the kitchen. "My mum and Timmy's are old friends. Such gossipers."

A terrible sound interrupted, drawing attention to the toddler banging his open palms on the keys. Shane ran over to the boy to pull him away from the piano.

"C'mere buddy. No more of that now." He turned to Sherlock and John as he carried the boy to a coffee table with paper and crayons scattered about the surface. "It's funny. These people screw around on their significant others, and we're suppose to feel sorry for them when they can't handle their guilt."

"Shane," Rebecca said in a warning tone.

"Come. Take a seat, gentlemen."

Shane gestured to the sofa across from where he was seated. They took his offer and sat together on the pearl white cushions. John looked to Sherlock, expecting him to start the questioning, but he was already preoccupied. An electronic photo frame sitting in the center of the table, displaying wedding photos, had his attention instead. John shook his head.

"So..." John cleared his throat. "You knew about all that? We're you acquainted with Timothy at all?" He pulled out his note pad, ready to write.

Shane leaned his elbows on his knees and bobbed his head. "No, but I heard about him plenty. Especially that week before he jumped, I had to hear about how he flooded Becca's phone with text after text; even waiting outside her classrooms, begging her for another chance." He scoffed. "Now if that's not mental..."

"Don't be rude, Shane."

Shane stretched out his neck. "I'm using your words, love."

"I know but I was angry at the time. I've forgiven him since then."

"Yeah. I know. You forgave him after a week. No wonder he thought he could have another run with you."

Rebecca came in with the tea, trying to speak calmly. "I didn't forgive him for him. I forgave him for me."

"Oh, well that's a little convenient."

The tray of tea slammed down on the coffee table causing John and Sherlock to look up. Rebecca glared at her husband, keeping her fingers curled tightly around the handles of the tray. Her voice rose.

"When did I ever say that I-"

"I'm sorry," John cut in, reaching his arm out in front to make himself known. "So sorry to interrupt but-"

Rebecca, horrified, turned and covered her mouth. "Oh my-No, don't be!" She sat down besides Shane, giving him a pointed look. "We were so rude."

"Actually, um...I just wanted to ask, did you by any chance perform at Wigmore Hall last year? Around..."

She blinked. "May? Yes. It was our Alumni concert." Her face lit up. "You were there?!"

John smiled back. "Yeah. My fiancé and I. You were really good, I remember. In fact you were my fiancé's favorite."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John; both confused and disappointed he went off topic.

"Oh my gosh. Really? I was worried it didn't go too well, actually."

"You can thank your accompanist for that," Shane muttered.

Rebecca sent her husband another look of warning, making the room feel tense. John struggled again to interrupt them.

"Um so...Is that what you studied in school? Music? Singing?"

She relaxed and smiled. "Mm-hm. It's all I ever wanted to do since I was a kid."

John nodded. It was working. "That's brilliant. And I assume Timothy must have been pretty supportive of that."

Sherlock understood now what John was doing. Unable to hide his approval, his mouth curled up.

"He was," Rebecca said as she stirred the sugar in her cup. "Timmy almost never missed any of my performances." She bent her head down, staring into her tea. "I was so happy when he announced he was going to my university. The first year felt pretty lonely without him there..."

The conversation moved to her time growing up with Timothy. Sherlock and John listened as she talked of Sunday school and the trips they took to the mountains. Between John's feet, a small, black cat poke his head out from under the sofa. Determining it was safe, the cat crawled out and sat in front of John, staring up at him.

"At the cliff, we had this amazing view of the lake and what he said about it, he had this _amazing_ gift with words, he said, 'I could be one with everything here.'"

John leaned down to pet the cat that rubbed against his socks. "That's right. I think his parents mentioned he was studying to become a reverend."

"Actually..." She bit her lip. "He only told them that."

"He wanted to be a writer," Sherlock said suddenly.

Rebecca eyes widen. This was the first time he said anything to her since coming in to the house. "Yes...He was brilliant at it. He used to send me letters all the time when I was away at camp and leave these little notes in my locker-"

The cat jumped into John's lap.

"Oh-Hello," John greeted.

"Oh gosh! Sh-" She briefly covered her mouth. "Kitty. Kitty, get down." Reaching across the table, she made clicking noises, trying to direct him down.

"It's fine," John assured, petting it. "This one doesn't seem to have claws so I think we'll get along just-"

"Shrock."

Every one looked down at the little boy as he made his way towards John. He reached up and clumsily petted the cat, saying over and over again, 'Good Shrock.'

Sherlock made eye contact with Rebecca whose face redden considerably.

"Uh um," John started. "Is he trying to say-"

"Shamrock." Rebecca pulled her son back to the other side of the table. "Lucas can't pronounce Shamrock. I found the poor thing in a bed of them so that's his name. I can't believe I didn't put out biscuits. How silly of me." She got up and disappeared into the kitchen.

After Shane finished snickering, the room was silent. John proceeded to scratch the cat's face as Sherlock analyzed the electronic photo frame some more. Shane eyed Sherlock as he did this, becoming particularly displeased when he noticed him biting his lip.

"You seem to be enjoying our wedding photos over there."

Sherlock mets his eyes.

"You're not the only one who's observant around here. You don't think I can see you ogling at that picture frame?"

Sherlock stared for a moment before answering. "You're in the photos too."

Shane's mouth fell agape as Sherlock casually poured himself some tea. Rebecca came back and set a plate of biscuits down.

"Where were we...before?"

Sherlock wiggled his eyebrows at Shane as he took a bite of one of the square biscuits.

"I keep getting interrupted."

John, distracted by Sherlock and Shane's exchange, turned quickly back to Rebecca. "Uh...you mentioned Timothy wrote notes, letters..."

She sat down. "Oh yes. Um...You see, Timmy was so passionate about his writing. He said he really wanted to improve too, through a higher education. It's just not like him to have thrown away everything he's worked for over...us." That last part, she said regretfully.

John scooted forward, careful not to disturb 'Shamrock'. "Yeah. Let's talk a little about that. What happened there?" He grabbed his pad and pen from the sofa arm.

"Well..." Rebecca began. "It was exciting, you know. One of his first nights away. Um...I thought we could just stay up late, eat junk food, just...silly things your parents would never let you do but...he had _other_ ideas."

"Naturally."

John winced at Sherlock's comment.

"So...we were at a disagreement. I...I don't know. Maybe I was too harsh on him. He apparently thought I broke up with him that night."

"Perfect excuse I ever heard to shag your _best_ friend," Shane said in a near whisper.

Rebecca put a hand on his knee, "Stop," then removed it and continued. "To be honest, I really just wanted to move on from it and be friends instead. It seemed better that way." A tear streamed down her cheek.

Sherlock, more interested now, leaned towards her. "But he didn't want that."

Rebecca shook her head, trying to hold back.

He tried to meet her eyes. "And was there anyone else that might have gotten involved in this? Anyone who objected to the idea of you two getting back toge-"

"You wanna back off, mate?"

Sherlock, uncharacteristically, did as he was told and cautiously sat up straight as Shane stared daggers into him.

"Shane. Don't-"

"No." Shane pulled his lips in as a swung his head back and forth. "Look. I get that Timothy's parents are in denial. I see it all the time at work but for these two hacks to come here and take advantage of what ever amount of money they offered-"

John gently lifted the cat off of him. "Maybe we should go."

"Yeah, I think you should."

Rebecca held her hands out at them. "No, please. Stay." She turned to her husband to reason with him. "Shane..."

Shane, with darken eyes and a crinkled face, jabbed a finger in their direction. "I don't appreciate _anybody_ coming into my home and upsetting my wife!"

"They're not the ones upsetting me right now!"

Shane turned his body to Rebecca, slightly cowering at her angry expression. Her pursed lips and folded arms told him he had done enough. She sighed deeply and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Love. You worked seventeen hours straight. You're exhausted." She stood up, keeping a hand under his arm. "Here. Help me get my binder from the closet then go lie down and get some rest, okay?"

Shane breathed out after a second, calming himself down. "Fine...fine." He stood up to follow her.

"We'll just be a moment if you don't mind watching Lucas for a bit," Rebecca said as she guided her husband to the back room.

They said nothing as they left. The cat had since jumped back up on to John and the boy continued to scribbled a picture, unaffected by the display.

"Jesus," John said quietly. "Anyone have a knife?" He added after a few seconds, "Don't know how those two ever ended up together."

"It's more like 'why'."

"How do you mean?"

Sherlock pointed to the photo frame. "She's pregnant in the wedding photos."

"Wait. What?" John grabbed for the frame, taking a closer look.

"Just past the first trimester. She chose a dress that was loose around the mid section, but you can still see a slight protrusion. Compare this to the photos we saw at the Addisons, there's also pinker skin, larger breasts-"

"J-J-Shhh!" John whispered harshly, "Keep your voice down, alright?"

Sherlock waited before speaking in a softer tone. "Even more interesting, the boy's not even his."

"Oh, lovely. Why don't you take me through that?"

He pointed to the boy. "Blonde hair, blue eyes. The husband's features are brown. Not impossible but considering his family members, consisting of three generations in these pictures, all have brown hair and eyes, I'd say two recessive traits showing up in one of his offspring is highly unlikely."

"Well, that explains the stick up his arse."

"No. That's something else all together. He's had three years to come to terms with that. He likely knew from the start then agreed to marry her to help her keep up appearances with her family."

"So who's kid do you think he is?"

"My bet is high on our current suspect."

John groaned. "Right. He does look like him."

"And the cycle continues..." Sherlock twirled his finger in the air.

"Hey," John protested. "That's not fair. He could turn out all right." He leaned down towards the boy. "That's a nice picture you're drawing there. Can you tell me what it is?"

Lucas put down his crayon and held up his picture to them. A black blob with two black triangles at the top. "Shrock," he said, very proud of his work.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John stifled a laugh. Looking down at the cat, curled comfortably on his legs, John hooked his finger under the band around his neck.

"Oh. Look at that. He's even got a blue collar."

"Shut up."

Rebecca came back in, carrying a two inch binder in her arm.

"Please forgive my husband. He just came home from the hospital."

John waved his hand. "Its fine. Believe me. I understand."

She sat back down, across from them and placed the binder on the coffee table. "Can I ask you something really quick?"

John shrugged. "Sure."

"Um..." She looked behind her and lowered her voice. "How is she doing?"

Both Sherlock and John were surprised. They exchanged looks.

"Uh w-I'm sorry?"

"Uh..." Rebecca quickly poured herself another cup and took a long sip. "I got a message from Elizabeth saying she went to America for a family emergency, but...she knows I know she'd never go to see her American relatives, okay? And it was a Facebook message. She only ever uses Facebook to message me when she's trying to throw Henry off so that's just...really making me nervous." She put her cup down and clasped her hands tightly together. "Please. I don't need to know where or any details. I just need to hear from you that she's okay."

John didn't know what to say at first. He looked to Sherlock, but he was just as clueless as he was.

"Uh...Yeah, she's doing just fine."

The tension in her body left her as she breathed out. "Okay. I feel little better now."

"How did you know she came to us?"

Rebecca let out a frustrated laughed. "Well, for one thing, I told her to."

"Really?"

"Mm-hm. I've been telling her for months, over and over, 'Elly. Go see Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,' but she's never listened till now. I figured it out once I heard you had visited with Timmy's parents."

"Then you know who we're investigating," Sherlock said.

"And I'm not the least bit surprised." Rebecca opened up the binder and flipped through the pages.

John tried to get a look himself. "Those are the letters you were talking about. May I see those for a second?"

"Oh, yes." She turned the binder to face him. "Be my guest."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "How did those two end up together?"

John looked up at him. "Isn't that a little off top-"

Sherlock held his hand up. "Let the lady speak, John."

Rebecca tried to come up a response. "Basically, he was smitten. It really didn't make sense at first given his, um, track record but sometime in her sophomore year, he started asking her out. She never gave him the time of day, though."

"Until she did."

"Well..." She looked away. "She had just gotten out of a serious relationship, sort of."

"A relationship?" John repeated.

Rebecca nodded. "And her grandmother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer around that time as well." She paused. "I think she just got caught up in the glamour of it all."

"You're talking about when he inherited his father's estate."

"Mm-hm." She scoffed. "It was all so ridiculous. He was already walking around like some sort of big shot but after he got all that money, he just stopped all his studies and then hosted this huge party at his father's mansion."

John wrote something down. "You seem to know him pretty well. What was your relationship with him?"

Rebecca furrowed her eyebrows. "Nothing. We were friendly towards each other and we shared the same major in school but I never liked him."

"And his relationship with Timothy?" Sherlock asked.

"I never really heard of anything between them." She reached and flipped to the last page of the binder, pulling something out of the pocket. " _But_ I did have an interesting conversation with one of my colleagues about that charity event he claimed he went to. Her jazz group was hired to perform there for the entire event and she said she never saw him. Not once."

"Really?" John asked.

"Mm-hm. So...I decided to do a little snooping." She placed the object in her hand on the table, revealing it to be a flash drive.

Sherlock picked it up and examined it.

She smiled to herself. "Luckily our school keeps thorough records of student sign-ins in all the buildings."

"Clever girl," Sherlock commented.

"Me?" Rebecca blushed and dipped her head down. "Oh no. Not at all. It was really simple. It may be nothing, actually. I showed this to Chris, and he said it didn't prove anything."

"Chris?"

"Oh. Right. Christopher Peyton. He's the detective that worked on Elly's case."

"You called him Chris," Sherlock pressed.

"He's an old friend of mine. Chris, Shane, and I all belonged to the same bible study on campus."

Sherlock found that interesting.

"Still...Somehow, I don't think he's right."

Sherlock dropped the flash drive in his breast pocket. "Wouldn't be the first time."

A horrendous pair of shrieks filled the room. After having jumped in their seats, all their eyes landed on John's lap where a black, puffed up animal stood, baring his teeth at the crying boy.

"Jesus!" John breathed, tipping his head back.

Rebecca stood up. "Lucas!"

Lucas, red faced, held up his hand showing her the scratch across the back of his hand. Rebecca bent down to his level, looking him square in the eye.

"We don't pull kitty's tail. That hurts kitty."

"Mommy!" Lucas moaned, hugging her neck with one arm.

She sighed. "You've dealt with people like him before. What do you think? Are they created or are they just born that way?"

They both just sat there, silent. What could they possibly say to that?

"Well...I guess I'll just have to find out for myself." Rebecca gave them a sad smile before turning back to her son. "Okay." She placed multiple kisses on his hand. "Lets get you a bandaid."

She lifted Lucas up and reached with her free arm for the last page in her binder. "Here. Linda told me you asked her for this."

Sherlock got up with John and took the letter in the plastic sleeve. "Thank you."

"Yes. Thank you Mrs. Norton for all your time."

Rebecca followed behind them. "Can I just say, thank you so much for taking up this case? You have no idea the burden this will lift once he's back in prison where he belongs."

John opened the door. "It's our pleasure."

They nearly stepped out.

"And Mr. Holmes..."

Sherlock turned around and saw Rebecca take a step closer, giving him a warm smile.

"I'm really glad you're back with us."

Sherlock stood in front of the charming woman, completely composed, for a noticeable amount time before he finally said, "Good afternoon," and left.

She watched as they walked off, slowly closing the door after them. Sherlock looked back behind him as the door shut.

"Alright, Casanova," John said, pulling Sherlock along. "It's a long walk out of this neighborhood."

Sherlock smirked to himself as he ducked under the iron archway.

"Did she ever tell you about a boyfriend?" John asked.

"Who?"

"Elizabeth. The serious relationship." He looked back at his notes. "I'm thinking we should talk to this bloke next. Who knows. He may be the missing piece we're looking for."

"He?"

"Well, I assume so-" John stopped once he saw his smirking face. "Why are you so smug right now?"

"You called me Casanova, in regards to the exchange I just had with Mrs. Norton."

"Yes. Am I missing something?"

"As per usual, John. Even something as small as this, I'm surprised you missed it."

"Can you just get on with it?"

"My suspicions first started with our client. She has shown, on more than one occasion, more than just a friendly interest in her friend. At first I thought this was one-sided but then Rebecca mentioned our client was in a long term relationship before she was with Pinkerton. She averted eye contact as she said this. Obviously she was leaving something out. Now there's the tension in the marriage. From my experience with similar cases, this is recent. Fairly recent, in fact. My guess, Mr. Norton had the pleasure of walking in on their 'reunion'.

They walked along the pavement as John processed the new information.

"You're saying they're-"

"Lovers. Bit obvious really. The trip to Spain. Both of their relationship statuses set to 'It's complicated', prior to their respective domestic relationships. I really should have seen it sooner."

"You mean an affair...between Elizabeth and..." John looked behind him, pointing at the distant house. "... _that_ woman." He began to stare off into space.

Sherlock noticed John's absentmindedness and snapped his fingers in his face. "John, focus."

"Right. Right. No, I'm just...trying to wrap my head around it." He held his finger up. "Hang on. You're surprised I missed it?"

"...Yes."

John gave him a perplexed look. "So...what..."

"Your sister, of course. You're familiar with the signs, I'm sure."

"Signs? What-Sherlock. What the hell are you talking about?"

Sherlock became impatient. "Signs. Clues. Vibes." He raised both his index and middle fingers. "' _Gay_ dar' as people call it."

"So..." John looked at his friend in disbelief. "So you think because I have a gay sister that I can somehow pick out closeted lesbians?"

"Apparently not."

"Do you ever think that, maybe, you rely a little too heavily on stereotypes?"

"I rely on the balance of probability."

"Oh, that's a big difference," John responded sarcastically. "So, what's left? We have the letter. We have the case files. We've talked to just about everyone involved...anything else to do?"

Sherlock took the flash drive out of his pocket. "With any luck, all that would be left is to see what's on this drive." He tossed it up in the air and caught it. "What do you think, John? There's an internet cafe, just up the road. Shall we find out together?"

John checked his watch and shrugged. "Why not? I could use a good brew."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still enjoying it? Any comments? Questions? Theories? I'm all ears!(or eyes?) Thank you for all your continued support. (Especially you! You know who you are. ;) )


	9. Chapter 9

Mary came down the stairs, wearing a cozy, blue dressing gown and a matching towel wrapped around her head. She looked over the railing to see John sitting on the sofa, rummaging through a stack of various papers including old bills and unsolicited leaflets.

"Back already?"

John kept his head down. "Yeah. Just got back five minutes ago."

She stopped and stood over him. "And any progress?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Another dead end."

"Oh, that's too bad," Mary answered sympathetically.

John, absentminded, nodded along as he continued to flip through the stack on his lap. She looked at him curiously, wondering what he had his mind on.

"What on earth are you looking for?"

"I knew I recognized her name, I just couldn't put my finger on it." After John had gotten to the bottom of the stack, he lifted it off and replaced it with another that had previously sat beside him. "Not until today," he added.

"Who?"

"Remember that concert we went to? The one your friend gave us the extra tickets for that had that drop dead singer you liked so much?

"Vaguely. Yeah."

"Ah." John pulled out a thick black and white booklet and held it up. "Found it. Check this out."

Mary sat down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and leaned in to see. John found the page and stretched the booklet open.

"Okay, so that's the woman we talked to today."

"Oh wow. Okay."

"And her accompanist..." John brought the page closer to her face. "...was Elizabeth."

Mary gasped a little. "My gosh, you're right." She took the booklet from him and took a second look. "How weird. I can't seem to remember her."

"That's because she didn't actually play. Remember, they changed the order of the program due to a delay and ended up getting another pianist for Rebecca's performance."

"A delay, huh," she said as she looked pitifully at the picture. She read the small paragraph beside it. "Hmm. She must be fairly good then."

John shrugged. "Probably."

Mary rolled her jaw as she gave one last look inside the booklet before exchanging it for the fashion magazine on the end table.

"So...Still there, isn't she?"

John sat back with his head near against the wall. "Yep, and not only that, she's staying too. Until we get this all sorted, she'll be staying with him indefinitely."

"Well, I could have predicted that."

"Yes, well, you also think he fancies her."

"What other explanation could there be?"

"For Sherlock?" He pretended to check his watch. "Oh jeez. How long do you have?"

Mary took her focus off of her magazine and laughed half heartedly. "We did give him an out."

"Yeah, I know." He drew in a deep breath and sighed out loud. "I don't know...I think there might be something going on with him." He added after a second, "Not that he would ever tell me."

"Of course there is," Mary agreed. "It must be lonely, coming back from the dead, after everyone's moved on from you."

That hit him hard. He started to wonder really how good of a friend he had been lately.

Mary noticed his silence and elected to lighten the mood. "But hey, I'm sure it's nothing more crime solving couldn't fix. You two had fun today, didn't you?"

John smirked. "As much fun you can have in a case like this. You know, I've almost forgotten how good he is. How he can just pick up on those details like that and piece it all together in minutes."

"Ooh...You're forgetting Christmas."

He laughed with her. The memory of that disastrous day would stay with them for days to come. Once they calmed down, he returned to his thoughtfulness, directing his eyes to his clutched hands.

"She was grateful," John began. "Rebecca Norton, she was so grateful we came and so hopeful that we would catch her boyfriend's killer." He nodded to himself. "I almost forgot that feeling as well."

Mary laid a hand above his knee and smiled warmly. "And now you don't have to."

She was right. Taking her hand tenderly, John looked to her to convey his gratitude. He would never have to forget again.

 

\--

It was the middle of the day and Sherlock stood, towering over an object on the living room floor. A mannequin, male and well used, stared back up at him as he carefully circled its form, giving it a critical overview. He stopped to kneel over it, planting a leg on either side and compared it to a photograph he retrieved from his desk. His findings, much to his frustration, were inconclusive.

Back behind him, Elizabeth appeared at the doorway. She opened her mouth to speak but the scene before her, Sherlock's compromising position with the human figure, stopped her words and herself in their tracks. Deciding not to interrupt, she turned and began to descend the staircase.

"Yes? What is it?" Sherlock called.

Her head popped back in. "Huh?"

"You have a question, obviously. An additional one you formed before witnessing this scenario, I assume you have no context for."

She took a moment to respond. "Uh...I was just going to ask if I could use your computer, but that's okay. I'll just ask Mrs. Hudson instead." She tried to leave again.

"Don't bother. Mrs. Hudson had recently placed her trust in a flashing declaration of lottery winnings and acquired an unfathomable amount of malware thus rendering her computer inoperable. So long as you agree to stick to the mainstream social media sites, you have my permission for the time being."

"Oh...Okay." She walked back in and made her way towards the desk, carefully stepping over the mannequin's feet. "Thank you."

Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring down at the mannequin, imagining it was the victim's body. Every possible scenario for his murder he could think of sped through his brain and was dismissed just as quickly. He knew he was getting close. If only he could just figure out what was missing.

"Oh my God..."

His concentration broke. "Did I mention silence is apart of the agreement?" he asked sternly.

"Sorry. It's just I got a message from Rebecca. Her husband just left her this morning." Elizabeth looked painfully at the screen.

"Not that I care but shouldn't you be happy about this?"

She looked at him twice. "What? Why would I be _happy_?" Her voice rose in pitch. "He just left her alone, with a child, and emptied all their accounts!"

He swung his head towards her. "What did you just say?"

"She's a clerk at a veterinary clinic. She can't afford everything on her own!"

"No, no. Tell me _exactly_ what you just said. The very last thing!"

"He emptied all their accounts."

There it was. The detective shot up and scurried to the computer.

"Let me see."

He stood over her, bracing himself with his hands at either side of the laptop as he read the passage. His face neared the screen, giving no attention to the person under him, who had sunken herself down, hoping it would be enough to signal to him that he was breaking an unspoken boundary between them.

"Mr. Holmes. You're too close." She said this as calmly as she could.

Sherlock look down and understood. He moved to the chair adjacent to her's and repositioned the computer. He mouthed something, over and over. A thought came to mind and he pulled up his head.

"What hospital did you go to the first time you were attacked?"

Elizabeth rubbed her forehead and pinched between her eyes. "Uh...the one across the river, near the bridge. I can't remember the name right now."

"That's where the evidence disappeared?"

She nodded.

"Is that the same hospital where Rebecca's husband works?"

She was quiet. She picked up her head and looked into his eyes. Her face whitened as she shook her head at this suggestion, denying at first and then pleading. Finally, she pushed her chair back.

"I'm going to be sick."

She hurried through the kitchen. Sherlock looked back, a little pitifully, and turned back to his work. He grabbed a piece of paper off the desk titled, 'Guest List' and compared it to something he had previously pulled up on the home screen. His eyes darted to and from both pieces of information and then he smiled as he put the sheet down. He started typing, barely able to contain his excitement. That excitement grew when he heard the footsteps from the staircase.

"Alright. Is she in her room?" John pointed above him.

"John." Sherlock walked up to him and grabbed his shoulders. "I'm close."

John decided against responding to those choice of words. "That's...wonderful."

"They're connected," he said as he gave him a shake. "It's all connected. How could I have not seen that before?"

John pushed his hands off of him. "No clue. You called me here, for a reason, remember?" He looked around the room. "Where is she?"

Sherlock pointed in the direction of the hallway as he paced.

John sighed. "Okay. So what are her symptoms? Does she have a fever, nausea...?"

"Tell me something. If money couldn't persuade you to commit a heinous crime, then what could?

"I don't know. Complete and utter frustration?" John answered sarcastically. "Sherlock. You said she was sick!" He angrily held up his medical kit.

"She is. She coughed this morning."

"She cough-" John loudly repeated. "You called me here from work because she coughed?!"

"Oh, come on. You know as well as I do Mrs. Seymour's going to cancel her appointment again."

"Why do you know that?"

"Never mind that," Sherlock said from the kitchen. "Come in here and take a look at this."

John was upset with him but he was also curious. Before following he muttered a quick 'dammit' and made strides to the kitchen table.

Sherlock pulled on some latex gloves before removing a worn, wrinkly piece of paper from under the microscope. "You said before the letter was probably nicked off his desk, well interestingly enough it was even folded and sealed in an envelope, with some sort of sentimental piece inside. Fortunately for us, a rather sizable item because the seal..."

He flipped the letter and held it up for John to see as he traced his finger along the back.

"...didn't quite line up correctly...creating this outline made from torn fibers and traces of the adhesive."

John leaned in more, utterly amazed. "An unposted letter."

Sherlock nodded as he put the letter in its plastic cover. "There's something else. There were two killers. There had to be. I tested it."

John looked to where Sherlock was pointing. A mannequin slashed open from collar to crotch.

"Timothy was six foot three, and weighed one hundred and ninety-one pounds. One person couldn't have possibly dragged him from his room, up the stairs to the roof, before he would die from the injuries."

"So it was Pinkerton and someone else."

"No."

John cocked his head. "No?"

"No. Remember? We saw Pinkerton was signed in to his hall building from 6:30 till about 9:15, putting him away from the crime scene during the time of the alleged suicide, which clocked in at 9:42. The charity event, however, took place from 6 till 10, at a location no less than an hour away from campus."

"...Uh huh." John didn't really follow.

"So..." Sherlock encouraged. "Don't you see?! He may not have been one of the killers..." He smiled devilishly. "But he definitely was not at that gala either."

"So why lie about it?"

"Investment."

Just as John was about to respond, Elizabeth appeared from the hallway.

"Oh. Hi Dr. Watson." She smiled weakly at him.

Sherlock turned to roll his eyes in private.

"Hey Elizabeth. You...doing okay, today?"

She nodded and headed for the desk. "Yeah. Fine. Just a little tired."

John watched her, concerned as she pulled her cardigan tighter around herself.

"Wait a minute." She whipped her head towards Sherlock and pointed to the computer screen. "I'm in Bristol?"

"Back from your travels, at a four star hotel, waiting for your friend to join you for drinks," Sherlock answered.

"What for?"

"Given the level of obsession your ex has with you, I'd say it shouldn't take him more than an hour to see this message."

She crossed her arms. "You're seriously using me as bait?!"

"No, no," Sherlock assured enthusiastically. "Even better. Dr. Watson and I will be breaking into his mansion while he's away, looking for you."

John's eyes widen. "We're doing what now?"

"We'll leave as soon I figure out what we're looking for. Do me a favor." He was addressing Elizabeth now. "Edit this into your own words, with your usual misspellings, grammatical errors, and whatever frivolous slang you young women use these days."

Sherlock had already turned his back on her before he could see the scowl on her face.

"John. Are you following what I've given you so far?"

"Yeah. Sure. Hang on." John went for the medical kit on the dining table and returned to the room. "Elizabeth. Let's get you a check-up real quick."

She stopped typing. "Wait. What?"

"We don't have time for this. You can examine her when we get back."

John ignored him. "Just sit over there," he directed, pointing to Sherlock's chair. "It won't take long."

She got up and sat down cautiously on the edge. "Why am I getting a check-up?"

John took a chair from the desk and sat across from her. "Well..." He pulled out a pen light to examine her eyes. "You have Sherlock to thank for that. He urged me over here, insisting you were sick."

She looked to Sherlock. "You were worried about me?"

He ignored her. Not willing to lose his momentum, he began gathering all the various photographs and documents from his desk. Stacking them together, he took them to the kitchen to organize them. Once he finished, he waited, impatiently tapping his heel as he pressed his weight on his hands against the table. After zipping up his kit, John got up and joined Sherlock, sliding the doors all the way closed before speaking.

"Has she been outside?" John asked quietly.

"Kind of defeats the purpose of hiding, don't you think?"

John let out a exasperated sigh.

"Now, in that house, Pinkerton is withholding some kind of evidence. Something that he can effectively use against the killers for blackmail." Sherlock picked up the top file from the stack and pulled out a stapled packet. "This is the coroner's report. I was interrupted last time I saw this, so I never came across the section detailing the little splinters of wood that were found embedded through out the body." He handed John the packet.

John gave it a once over. "They found cedar and hickory."

"Both of which are commonly used in building frames but one call to the construction company over seeing the project confirmed that only cedar was used."

"But this report says that was probably due to contamination from storage."

"And that contamination just coincidently comes in direct contact with one of the injuries Timothy acquired _before_ landing in a pile of construction rubbish?" Sherlock handed him a photograph.

"His left arm..." John said after a second.

"-was the only area those samples were found," Sherlock finished.

John handed back the photo. "So we're looking for a blunt, hickory object." He bobbed his head. "Right. Should be simple enough."

A couple of knocks came from behind the sliding doors. John reached and slid one door open.

"Hey, I...couldn't help but over hear some but I think your looking for a bat."

Sherlock looked at Elizabeth like she was something ridiculous. "A bat," he recited incredulously.

"Yeah. It's was Henry's." She was unsure how to continue. "I remember first seeing it in their living room and...he's always had it since then. He told me he got it from a trip to New York with his dad so I figured it was just some kind of memento."

Sherlock continued to stare at her blankly while John did the same to him. He turned to John.

"There you go. I told you she was sick. The woman's clearly gone mad with a fever."

"What are you-"

"Hang on..." Elizabeth cut in.

John then realized. "Oh no..."

"I'm not mad. It's made of hickory and there was a rough spot on it too."

"How could you delete something like that?" John half whispered to himself.

Sherlock, fed up, reached for the puzzle book sitting on the corner of the table and shoved it into her hands. "Here. Be a good girl and occupy yourself with this until I call upon your input."

With that, he slid the door closed.

"I think once we get back you might want to have her head checked."

John groaned. "Sherlock..."

"That or checked-in."

"Dig deep. She's talking about a baseball bat."

His face froze. Apart from the occasional blink, he didn't move a muscle for quite some time.

"That...makes more sense," he said finally.

"Yes it does."

He recovered quickly from that embarrassment and began walking around the room. "No." He shook his head. "No. That still doesn't work. It belongs to him. He couldn't possibly use his own bat for blackmail. There would be nothing tying the culprits to the murder."

"Right, so something else then."

"Something unambiguous, irrefutable..."

They thought long and hard. Two men, completely stumped stood in that kitchen, trying to come up with the proof they needed.

"Maybe he just saw it," John posed.

"How could he? He wasn't in the building."

"He could have been standing outside. Saw them on the roof."

Sherlock thought it over, as unsatisfying as it was. "...Maybe..."

"Then he goes and confronts them about it later."

"...No. You could easily deny that. Eye witness accounts alone, are highly unreliable. Everyone knows that."

"Yeah but if he got a picture..."

His brows raised up. "Picture?"

John shrugged. "I think that outta do it."

He was right. It would. "John, you're brilliant."

Both doors were pushed wide open to make way for Sherlock as he marched up to his lounge chair.

"Those pictures of you..."

Elizabeth looked up unsuspectingly from her puzzle. "Pardon?"

"In every one of them, you were posing in such a way to make yourself seem desirable and inviting yet you never made eye contact. Why is that?"

John coughed behind him at that moment, sounding coincidentally like he was saying the word, 'context'.

"How long were you looking at those pictures?" she asked, appalled.

"Just answer the question."

Elizabeth got up and left the puzzle behind without a word.

"You want your ex put away, don't you?" He goaded, following close after her.

"No, don't..." John started.

Sherlock just about got to the first step when he was pulled back by his shoulders.

"...follow her."

He maneuvered out of his grasp and approached the railing.

"Just answer one question for me."

"Why?" She called from upstairs.

"Because, it's important. Did you or did you not know he was taking photos of you?"

A groan was heard. "Fine! No, okay?"

"Of course not..." Sherlock began. "Because they weren't photos, were they? They were stills from a video he secretly filmed of one of your nights together."

"Oh my God..." A door closed.

He turned to John. "Exactly as I thought."

"You're an idiot," John stated.

Sherlock moved to the living room. "An idiot that just solved a seven year old murder." He reread the passage on the computer screen.

"What was that even about?"

"Bedroom surveillance." He tapped a key on the keyboard. "I've seen it in numerous cases involving unfaithful spouses, but considering what we already know, I'd say it's probably more of a hobby of his."

"A hobby?"

"Woman after woman. Doing something like that so many times, one would think you'd occasionally leave the camera on by mistake...maybe even leave the bedroom door open too."

John smiled a little. "The bastard has it on video."

Sherlock caught something in his peripheral and snapped his head towards his chair.

"Wait. You said it was for blackmail. What reason would he have to blackmail them? He's rich, isn't he?"

Sherlock picked up the puzzle book and looked over the page. His eyes widen.

"Sherlock?"

He turned his attention to the upstairs for a brief moment and then turned back to John.

"We need to get going." He tossed the book back on to the chair. "John. Grab the files and the letter." He grabbed his jacket from the back of a desk chair.

John did as he said and gathered everything together before meeting him at the foot of the stairs.

"So are you going to bother explaining this to me or you just going to-"

John shut up when Sherlock flipped open the top file and pulled out the 'Guest List'.

"Look at the three names here." He pointed to the mid part of the column.

John read the names and hung his mouth open.

"Just his luck. One killer grows up to be a detective and the other...a doctor."

Sherlock descended the stairs, leaving John to catch up.

"Don't doddle, John. There isn't a moment to spare and we still have some shopping to do."

"Uh right...Right behind you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had decided to take a extra week and reread the chapters I had posted so far for misspellings, grammatical errors, and for a little revising to make everything clean and clear. I couldn't believe how many mistakes I let slip when I did my editing. You all are wonderful for continuing to read through that mess. I'll try to be better in the future. Anyway, hope you are still enjoying it. I know I am. :)


End file.
